[bactttoma] Re: Harry Potter and the Deafly Hallows in txt or rtf needed for a blind friend of mine in New Zealand any help and suggestions appreciated please.

  • From: "david" <davidsaxberg@xxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • To: <bactttoma@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
  • Date: Fri, 21 May 2010 17:46:05 +1000

I have it hers it is
----- Original Message ----- From: "steven taylor" <steven_taylor10@xxxxxxxxxxx>
To: <vip-l@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Cc: <bactttoma@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Friday, May 21, 2010 1:09 PM
Subject: [bactttoma] Harry Potter and the Deafly Hallows in txt or rtf needed for a blind friend of mine in New Zealand any help and suggestions appreciated please.

Hi folks.

We are willing to pay for a copy of this book in either txt and or rtf format for a friend of mine who is blind living in New Zealand.

If anyone knows a website where I can get this book preferably in the above formats urgently please, all help would be sincerely appreciated.



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Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

By J. K. Rowling

The dedication of this book is split seven ways.

To Neil

To Jessica

To David

To Kenzie


To Anne

And to You

If you have stuck with Harry until the very end.


One [gotol

The Dark Lord Ascending

Two [gotol

In Memorandum

Three [gotol

The Dursleys Departing

Four [gotol

The Seven Potters

Five [gotol Fallen Warrior

Six [gotol

The Ghoul in Pajamas

Seven [gotol

The Will ofAlbus Dumbledore

Eight [gotol The Wedding

Nine [gotol A Place to Hide

Ten [gotol Kreacher's Tale

Eleven [gotol The Bribe

Twelve [gotol Magic is Might

Thirteen [gotol

The Muggle-born Registration Commission

Fourteen [gotol The Thief

Fifteen [gotol

The Goblin's Revenge

Sixteen [gotol Godric 's Hollow

Seventeen [gotol Bathilda's Secret

Eighteen [gotol

The Life and Lies ofAlbus Dumbledore

Nineteen [gotol The Silver Doe

Twenty [gotol Xenophilius Lovegood

Twenty-One [gotol

The Tale of the Three Brothers

Twenty-Two [gotol The Deathly Hallows

Twenty-Three [gotol Malfoy Manor

Twenty-Four [gotol The Wandmaker

Twenty-Five [gotol Shell Cottage

Twenty-Six [gotol Gringotts

Twenty-Seven [gotol The Final Hiding Place

Twenty-Eight [gotol The Missing Mirror

Twenty-Nine [gotol The Lost Diadem

Thirty [gotol

The Sacking ofSeverus Snape

Thirty-One [gotol The Battle ofHogwarts

Thirty-Two [gotol The Elder Wand

Thirty-Three [gotol The Prince's Tale

Thirty-Four [gotol The Forest Again

Thirty-Five [gotol King's Cross

Thirty-Six [gotol The Flaw in the Plan

Epilogue [gotol

Chapter One

The Dark Lord Ascending

     The two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, 
moonlit lane. For a second they stood quite still, wands directed at each 
other's chests; then, recognizing each other, they stowed their wands beneath 
their cloaks and started walking briskly in the same direction.

"News?" asked the taller of the two. "The best," replied Severus Snape. The 
lane was bordered on the left by wild, low-growing brambles, on the right by a high, neatly 
manicured hedge. The men's long cloaks flapped around their ankles as they marched.

 "Thought I might be late," said Yaxley, his blunt features sliding in and out of sight 
as the branches of overhanging trees broke the moonlight. "It was a little trickier than I 
expected. But I hope he will be satisfied. You sound confident that your reception will be 

 Snape nodded, but did not elaborate. They turned right, into a wide driveway 
that led off the lane. The high hedge curved into them, running off into the 
distance beyond the pair of imposing wrought-iron gates barring the men's way. 
Neither of them broke step: In silence both raised their left arms in a kind of 
salute and passed straight through, as though the dark metal was smoke.

     The yew hedges muffled the sound of the men's footsteps. There was a 
rustle somewhere to their right: Yaxley drew his wand again pointing it over 
his companion's head, but the source of the noise proved to be nothing more 
than a pure-white peacock, strutting majestically along the top of the hedge.

     "He always did himself well, Lucius. Peacocks ..." Yaxley thrust his wand 
back under his cloak with a snort.

     A handsome manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight 
drive, lights glinting in the diamond paned downstairs windows. Somewhere in 
the dark garden beyond the hedge a fountain was playing. Gravel crackled 
beneath their feet as Snape and Yaxley sped toward the front door, which swung 
inward at their approach, though nobody had visibly opened it.

     The hallway was large, dimly lit, and sumptuously decorated, with a 
magnificent carpet covering most of the stone floor. The eyes of the pale-faced 
portraits on the wall followed Snape and Yaxley as they strode past. The two 
men halted at a heavy wooden door leading into the next room, hesitated for the 
space of a heartbeat, then Snape turned the bronze handle.

     The drawing room was full of silent people, sitting at a long and ornate 
table. The room's usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the 
walls. Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble 
mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror. Snape and Yaxley lingered for a 
moment on the threshold. As their eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, 
they were drawn upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an apparently 
unconscious human figure hanging upside down over the table, revolving slowly 
as if suspended by an invisible rope, and reflected in the mirror and in the 
bare, polished surface of the table below. None of the people seated underneath 

singular sight were looking at it except for a pale young man sitting almost 
directly below it. He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward 
every minute or so.

     "Yaxley. Snape," said a high, clear voice from the head of the table. "You are 
very nearly late."

     The speaker was seated directly in front of the fireplace, so that it was 
difficult, at first, for the new arrivals to make out more than his silhouette. 
As they drew nearer, however, his face shone through the gloom, hairless, 
snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were 
vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow.

     "Severus, here," said Voldemort, indicating the seat on his immediate right. 
"Yaxley - beside Dolohov."

     The two men took their allotted places. Most of the eyes around the table 
followed Snape, and it was to him that Voldemort spoke first.


     "My Lord, the Order of the Phoenix intends to move Harry Potter from his 
current place of safety on Saturday next, at nightfall."

     The interest around the table sharpened palpably: Some stiffened, others 
fidgeted, all gazing at Snape and Voldemort.

     "Saturday ... at nightfall," repeated Voldemort. His red eyes fastened 
upon Snape's black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, 
apparently fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. 
Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort's face and, after a moment or two, 
Voldemort's lipless mouth curved into something like a smile.

"Good. Very good. And this information comes -"

" - from the source we discussed," said Snape.

"My Lord."

     Yaxley had leaned forward to look down the long table at Voldemort and 
Snape. All faces turned to him.

"My Lord, I have heard differently."

     Yaxley waited, but Voldemort did not speak, so he went on, "Dawlish, the Auror, 
let slip that Potter will not be moved until the thirtieth, the night before the boy 
turns seventeen."

Snape was smiling.

     "My source told me that there are plans to lay a false trail; this must be it. 
No doubt a Confundus Charm has been placed upon Dawlish. It would not be the first time; 
he is known to be susceptible."

"I assure you, my Lord, Dawlish seemed quite certain," said Yaxley.

     "If he has been Confunded, naturally he is certain," said Snape. "I assure you, 
Yaxley, the Auror Office will play no further part in the protection of Harry Potter. The Order 
believes that we have infiltrated the Ministry."

     "The Order's got one thing right, then, eh?" said a squat man sitting a 
short distance from Yaxley; he gave a wheezy giggle that was echoed here and there along 
the table.

     Voldemort did not laugh. His gaze had wandered upward to the body 
revolving slowly overhead, and he seemed to be lost in thought.

     "My Lord," Yaxley went on, "Dawlish believes an entire party of Aurors will be 
used to transfer the boy -"

     Voldemort held up a large white hand, and Yaxley subsided at once, 
watching resentfully as Voldemort turned back to Snape.

"Where are they going to hide the boy next?"

     "At the home of one of the Order," said Snape. "The place, according to the 
source, has been given every protection that the Order and Ministry together could provide. I think 
that there is little chance of taking him once he is there, my Lord, unless, of course, the 
Ministry has fallen before next Saturday, which might give us the opportunity to discover and undo 
enough of the enchantments to break through the rest."

     "Well, Yaxley?" Voldemort called down the table, the firelight glinting strangely in 
his red eyes. "Will the Ministry have fallen by next Saturday?"

Once again, all heads turned. Yaxley squared his shoulders.

     "My Lord, I have good news on that score. I have - with difficulty, and after 
great effort - succeeded in placing an Imperius Curse upon Pius Thicknesse."

     Many of those sitting around Yaxley looked impressed; his neighbor, 
Dolohov, a man with a long, twisted face, clapped him on the back.

     "It is a start," said Voldemort. "But Thicknesse is only one man. Scrimgeour 
must be surrounded by our people before I act. One failed attempt on the Minister's life will set 
me back a long way."

     "Yes - my Lord, that is true - but you know, as Head of the Department of 
Magical Law Enforcement, Thicknesse has regular contact not only with the Minister 
himself, but also with the Heads of all the other Ministry departments. It will, I think, 
be easy now that we have such a high-ranking official under our control, to subjugate the 
others, and then they can all work together to bring Scrimgeour down."

     "As long as our friend Thicknesse is not discovered before he has converted the 
rest," said Voldemort. "At any rate, it remains unlikely that the Ministry will be mine 
before next Saturday. If we cannot touch the boy at his destination, then it must be done while he 

     "We are at an advantage there, my Lord," said Yaxley, who seemed determined to 
receive some portion of approval. "We now have several people planted within the Department of 
Magical Transport. If Potter Apparates or uses the Floo Network, we shall know immediately."

     "He will not do either," said Snape. "The Order is eschewing any form of 
transport that is controlled or regulated by the Ministry; they mistrust everything to do with the 

     "All the better," said Voldemort. "He will have to move in the open. Easier to 
take, by far."

     Again, Voldemort looked up at the slowly revolving body as he went on, "I shall 
attend to the boy in person. There have been too many mistakes where Harry Potter is 
concerned. Some of them have been my own. That Potter lives is due more to my errors than 
to his triumphs."

     The company around the table watched Voldemort apprehensively, each of 
them, by his or her expression, afraid that they might be blamed for Harry 
Potter's continued existence. Voldemort, however, seemed to be speaking more to 
himself than to any of them, still addressing the unconscious body above him.

     "I have been careless, and so have been thwarted by luck and chance, those 
wreckers of all but the best-laid plans. But I know better now. I understand those things 
that I did not understand before. I must be the one to kill Harry Potter, and I shall 

     At these words, seemingly in response to them, a sudden wail sounded, a 
terrible, drawn-out cry of misery and pain. Many of those at the table looked 
downward, startled, for the sound had seemed to issue from below their feet.

     "Wormtail," said Voldemort, with no change in his quiet, thoughtful tone, and 
without removing his eyes from the revolving body above, "have I not spoken to you about 
keeping our prisoner quiet?"

     "Yes, m-my Lord," gasped a small man halfway down the table, who had been 
sitting so low in his chair that it appeared, at first glance, to be unoccupied. Now he 
scrambled from his seat and scurried from the room, leaving nothing behind him but a 
curious gleam of silver.

     "As I was saying," continued Voldemort, looking again at the tense faces of his 
followers, "I understand better now. I shall need, for instance, to borrow a wand from one of 
you before I go to kill Potter."

     The faces around him displayed nothing but shock; he might have announced 
that he wanted to borrow one of their arms.

     "No volunteers?" said Voldemort. "Let's see ... Lucius, I see no reason for you 
to have a wand anymore."

     Lucius Malfoy looked up. His skin appeared yellowish and waxy in the 
firelight, and his eyes were sunken and shadowed. When he spoke, his voice was 

"My Lord?"

"Your wand, Lucius. I require your wand."

CCT     55

     Malfoy glanced sideways at his wife. She was staring straight ahead, quite 
as pale as he was, her long blonde hair hanging down her back, but beneath the 
table her slim fingers closed briefly on his wrist. At her touch, Malfoy put 
his hand into his robes, withdrew a wand, and passed it along to Voldemort, who 
held it up in front of his red eyes, examining it closely.

"What is it?"

"Elm, my Lord," whispered Malfoy.

"And the core?"

"Dragon - dragon heartstring."

     "Good," said Voldemort. He drew out his wand and compared the lengths. 
Lucius Malfoy made an involuntary movement; for a fraction of a second, it seemed he 
expected to receive Voldemort's wand in exchange for his own. The gesture was not missed 
by Voldemort, whose eyes widened maliciously.

"Give you my wand, Lucius? My wand?"

Some of the throng sniggered.

     "I have given you your liberty, Lucius, is that not enough for you? But I have 
noticed that you and your family seem less than happy of late ... What is it about my 
presence in your home that displaces you, Lucius?"

"Nothing - nothing, my Lord!"

"Such lies Lucius ..."

     The soft voice seemed to hiss on even after the cruel mouth had stopped 
moving. One or two of the wizards barely repressed a shudder as the hissing 
grew louder; something heavy could be heard sliding across the floor beneath 
the table.

     The huge snake emerged to climb slowly up Voldemort's chair. It rose, 
seemingly endlessly, and came to rest across Voldemort's shoulders: its neck 
the thickness of a man's thigh; its eyes, with their vertical slits for pupils, 
unblinking. Voldemort stroked the creature absently with long thin fingers, 
still looking at Lucius Malfoy.

     "Why do the Malfoys look so unhappy with their lot? Is my return, my rise to 
power, not the very thing they professed to desire for so many years?"

     "Of course, my Lord," said Lucius Malfoy. His hand shook as he wiped sweat from his 
upper lip. "We did desire it - we do."

     To Malfoy's left, his wife made an odd, stiff nod, her eyes averted from 
Voldemort and the snake. To his right, his son, Draco, who had been gazing up 
at the inert body overhead, glanced quickly at Voldemort and away again, 
terrified to make eye contact.

     "My Lord," said a dark woman halfway down the table, her voice constricted with 
emotion, "it is an honor to have you here, in our family's house. There can be no higher 

     She sat beside her sister, as unlike her in looks, with her dark hair and 
heavily lidded eyes, as she was in bearing and demeanor; where Narcissa sat 
rigid and impassive, Bellatrix leaned toward Voldemort, for mere words could 
not demonstrate her longing for closeness.

     "No higher pleasure," repeated Voldemort, his head tilted a little to one side as he 
considered Bellatrix. "That means a great deal, Bellatrix, from you."

Her face flooded with color; her eyes welled with tears of delight.

"My Lord knows I speak nothing but the truth!"

     "No higher pleasure ... even compared with the happy event that, I hear, has 
taken place in your family this week?"

She stared at him, her lips parted, evidently confused.

"I don't know what you mean, my Lord."

     "I'm talking about your niece, Bellatrix. And yours, Lucius and Narcissa. She 
has just married the werewolf, Remus Lupin. You must be so proud."

     There was an eruption of jeering laughter from around the table. Many 
leaned forward to exchange gleeful looks; a few thumped the table with their 
fists. The giant snake, disliking the disturbance, opened its mouth wide and 
hissed angrily, but the Death Eaters did not hear it, so jubilant were they at 
Bellatrix and the Malfoys' humiliation. Bellatrix's face, so recently flushed 
wit happiness, had turned an ugly, blotchy red.

     "She is no niece of ours, my Lord," she cried over the outpouring of mirth. "We 
-Narcissa and I - have never set eyes on our sister since she married the Mudblood. This brat has 
nothing to do with either of us, nor any beast she marries."

     "What say you, Draco?" asked Voldemort, and though his voice was quiet, it carried 
clearly through the catcalls and jeers. "Will you babysit the cubs?"

     The hilarity mounted; Draco Malfoy looked in terror at his father, who was 
staring down into his own lap, then caught his mother's eye. She shook her head 
almost imperceptibly, then resumed her own deadpan stare at the opposite wall.

"Enough," said Voldemort, stroking the angry snake. "Enough."

And the laughter died at once.

     "Many of our oldest family trees become a little diseased over time," he said as 
Bellatrix gazed at him, breathless and imploring, "You must prune yours, must you not, to keep 
it healthy? Cut away those parts that threaten the health of the rest."

     "Yes, my Lord," whispered Bellatrix, and her eyes swam with tears of gratitude 
again. "At the first chance!"

     "You shall have it," said Voldemort. "And in your family, so in the world ... 
we shall cut away the canker that infects us until only those of the true blood remain ..."

     Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy's wand, pointed it directly at the slowly 
revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure 
came to life with a groan and began to struggle against invisible bonds.

"Do you recognize our guest, Severus?" asked Voldemort.

     Snape raised his eyes to the upside down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking 
up at the captive now, as though they had been given permission to show curiosity. As she 
revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, 
"Severus! Help me!"

"Ah, yes," said Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.

     "And you, Draco?" asked Voldemort, stroking the snake's snout with his 
wand-free hand. Draco shook his head jerkily. Now that the woman had woken, he seemed 
unable to look at her anymore.

     "But you would not have taken her classes," said Voldemort. "For those of you 
who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage who, until recently, taught at 
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

     There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad, 
hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.

     "Yes ... Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about 
Muggles ... how they are not so different from us ... "

     One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage revolved to 
face Snape again.

"Severus ... please ... please ..."

     "Silence," said Voldemort, with another twitch of Malfoy's wand, and Charity 
fell silent as if gagged. "Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of 
Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defense of Mudbloods in 
the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. 
The dwindling of the purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance ... 
She would have us all mate with Muggles ... or, no doubt, werewolves

     Nobody laughed this time. There was no mistaking the anger and contempt in 
Voldemort's voice. For the third time, Charity Burbage revolved to face Snape. 
Tears were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Snape looked back at her, quite 
impassive, as she turned slowly away from him again.

"Avada Kedavra "

     The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity 
fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and 
creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back in their chairs. Draco fell out 
of his onto the floor.

     "Dinner, Nagini," said Voldemort softly, and the great snake swayed and 
slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.

Chapter Two In Memorandum

     Harry was bleeding. Clutching his right hand in his left and swearing 
under his breath, he shouldered open his bedroom door. There was a crunch of 
breaking china. He had trodden on a cup of cold tea that had been sitting on 
the floor outside his bedroom door.

"What the--?"

     He looked around, the landing of number four, Privet Drive, was deserted. 
Possibly the cup of tea was Dudley's idea of a clever booby trap. Keeping his 
bleeding hand elevated, Harry scraped the fragments of cup together with the 
other hand and threw them into the already crammed bin just visible inside his 
bedroom door. Then he tramped across to the bathroom to run his finger under 
the tap.

     It was stupid, pointless, irritating beyond belief that he still had four 
days left of being unable to perform magic.. .but he had to admit to himself 
that this jagged cut in his finger would have defeated him. He had never 
learned how to repair wounds, and now he came to think of it - particularly in 
light of his immediate plans - this seemed a serious flaw in his magical 
education. Making a mental note to ask Hermione how it was done, he used a 
large wad of toilet paper to mop up as much of the tea as he could before 
returning to his bedroom and slamming the door behind him.

     Harry had spent the morning completely emptying his school trunk for the 
first time since he had packed it six years ago. At the start of the 
intervening school years, he had merely skimmed off the topmost three quarters 
of the contents and replaced or updated them, leaving a layer of general debris 
at the bottom - old quills, desiccated beetle eyes, single socks that no longer 
fit. Minutes previously, Harry had plunged his hand into this mulch, 
experienced a stabbing pain in the fourth finger of his right hand, and 
withdrawn it to see a lot of blood.

     He now proceeded a little more cautiously. Kneeling down beside the trunk 
again, he groped around in the bottom and, after retrieving an old badge that 
flickered feebly between SUPPORT CEDRIC DIGGORY and POTTER STINKS, a cracked 
and worn-out Sneakoscope, and a gold locket inside which a note signed R.A.B. 
had been hidden, he finally discovered the sharp edge that had done the damage. 
He recognized it at once. It was a two-inch-long fragment of the enchanted 
mirror that his dead godfather, Sirius, had given him. Harry laid it aside and 
felt cautiously around the trunk for the rest, but nothing

more remained of his godfather's last gift except powdered glass, which clung 
to the deepest layer of debris like glittering grit.

     Harry sat up and examined the jagged piece on which he had cut himself, 
seeing nothing but his own bright green eye reflected back at him. Then he 
placed the fragment on top of that morning's Daily prophet, which lay unread on 
the bed, and attempted to stem the sudden upsurge of bitter memories, the stabs 
of regret and of longing the discovery of the broken mirror had occasioned, by 
attacking the rest of the rubbish in the trunk.

     It took another hour to empty it completely, throw away the useless items, 
and sort the remainder in piles according to whether or not he would need them 
from now on. His school and Quidditch robes, cauldron, parchment, quills, and 
most of his textbooks were piled in a corner, to be left behind. He wondered 
what his aunt and uncle would do with them; burn them in the dead of night, 
probably, as if they were evidence of some dreadful crime. His Muggle clothing, 
Invisibility Cloak, potion-making kit, certain books, the photograph album 
Hagrid had once given him, a stack of letters, and his wand had been repacked 
into an old rucksack. In a front pocket were the Marauder's Map and the locket 
with the note signed R.A.B. inside it. The locket was accorded this place of 
honor not because it was valuable - in all usual senses it was worthless - but 
because of what it had cost to attain it.

     This left a sizable stack of newspapers sitting on his desk beside his 
snowy owl, Hedwig: one for each of the days Harry had spent at Privet Drive 
this summer.

     He got up off the floor, stretched, and moved across to his desk. Hedwig 
made no movement as he began to flick through newspapers, throwing them into 
the rubbish pile one by one. The owl was asleep or else faking; she was angry 
with Harry about the limited amount of time she was allowed out of her cage at 
the moment.

     As he neared the bottom of the pile of newspapers, Harry slowed down, 
searching for one particular issue that he knew had arrived shortly after he 
had returned to Privet Drive for the summer; he remembered that there had been 
a small mention on the front about the resignation of Charity Burbage, the 
Muggle Studies teacher at Hogwarts. At last he found it. Turning to page ten, 
he sank into his desk chair and reread the article he had been looking for.


By Elphias Doge

I met Albus Dumbledore at the age of eleven, on our first day at Hogwarts. Our 
mutual attraction was undoubtedly due to the fact that we both felt ourselves 
to be outsiders. I had contracted dragon pox shortly before arriving at school, 
and while

I was no longer contagious, my pock-marked visage and greenish hue did not 
encourage many to approach me. For his part, Albus had arrived at Hogwarts 
under the burden of unwanted notoriety. Scarcely a year previously, his father, 
Percival, had been convicted of a savage and well-publicized attack upon three 
young Muggles.

  Albus never attempted to deny that his father (who was to die in Azkaban) had 
committed this crime; on the contrary, when I plucked up courage to ask him, he 
assured me that he knew his father to be guilty. Beyond that, Dumbledore 
refused to speak of the sad business, though many attempted to make him do so. 
Some, indeed, were disposed to praise his father's action and assumed that 
Albus too was a Muggle-hater. They could not have been more mistaken: As 
anybody who knew Albus would attest, he never revealed the remotest anti-Muggle 
tendency. Indeed, his determined support for Muggle rights gained him many 
enemies in subsequent years.

  In a matter of months, however, Albus's own fame had begun to eclipse that of 
his father. By the end of his first year he would never again be known as the 
son of a Muggle-hater, but as nothing more or less than the most brilliant 
student ever seen at the school. Those of us who were privileged to be his 
friends benefited from his example, not to mention his help and encouragement, 
with which he was always generous. He confessed to me later in life that he 
knew even then that his greatest pleasure lay in teaching.

  He not only won every prize of note that the school offered, he was soon in 
regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day, 
including Nicolas Flamel, the celebrated alchemist; Bathilda Bagshot, the noted 
historian; and Adalbert Waffling, the magical theoretician. Several of his 
papers found their way into learned publications such as Transfiguration Today, 
Challenges in Charming, and The Practical Potioneer. Dumbledore's future career 
seemed likely to be meteoric, and the only question that remained was when he 
would become Minister of Magic. Though it was often predicted in later years 
that he was on the point of taking the job, however, he never had Ministerial 

  Three years after we had started at Hogwarts, Albus's brother, Aberforth, 
arrived at school. They were not alike: Aberforth was never bookish and, unlike 
Albus, preferred to settle arguments by dueling rather than through reasoned 
discussion. However, it is quite wrong to suggest, as some have, that the 
brothers were not friends. They rubbed along as comfortably as two such 
different boys could do. In fairness to Aberforth, it must be admitted that 
living in Albus's shadow cannot have been an altogether comfortable experience. 
Being continually outshone was an occupational hazard of being his friend and 
cannot have been any more pleasurable as a brother. When Albus and I left 
Hogwarts we intended to take the then-traditional tour of the world together, 
visiting and observing foreign wizards, before pursuing our separate careers. 
However, tragedy intervened. On the very eve of our trip, Albus's mother, 
Kendra, died, leaving

Albus the head, and sole breadwinner, of the family. I postponed my departure 
long enough to pay my respects at Kendra's funeral, then left for what was now 
to be a solitary journey. With a younger brother and sister to care for, and 
little gold left to them, there could no longer be any question of Albus 
accompanying me.

  That was the period of our lives when we had least contact. I wrote to Albus, 
describing, perhaps insensitively, the wonders of my journey, from narrow 
escapes from chimaeras in Greece to the experiments of the Egyptian alchemists. 
His letters told me little of his day-to-day life, which I guessed to be 
frustratingly dull for such a brilliant wizard. Immersed in my own experiences, 
it was with horror that I heard, toward the end of my year's travels, that 
another tragedy had struck the Dumbledores: the death of his sister, Ariana.

  Though Ariana had been in poor health for a long time, the blow, coming so 
soon after the loss of their mother, had a profound effect on both of her 
brothers. All those closest to Albus - and I count myself one of that lucky 
number - agree that Ariana's death, and Albus's feeling of personal 
responsibility for it (though, of course, he was guiltless), left their mark 
upon him forevermore.

  I returned home to find a young man who had experienced a much older person's 
suffering. Albus was more reserved than before, and much less light-hearted. To 
add to his misery, the loss of Ariana had led, not to a renewed closeness 
between Albus and Aberforth, but to an estrangement. (In time this would lift - 
in later years they reestablished, if not a close relationship, then certainly 
a cordial one.) However, he rarely spoke of his parents or of Ariana from then 
on, and his friends learned not to mention them.

  Other quills will describe the triumphs of the following years. Dumbledore's 
innumerable contributions to the store of Wizarding knowledge, including his 
discovery of the twelve uses of dragon's blood, will benefit generations to 
come, as will the wisdom he displayed in the many judgments while Chief Warlock 
of the Wizengamot. They say, still, that no Wizarding duel ever matched that 
between Dumbledore and Grindelwald in 1945. Those who witnessed it have written 
of the terror and the awe they felt as they watched these two extraordinary 
wizards to battle. Dumbledore's triumph, and its consequences for the Wizarding 
world, are considered a turning point in magical history to match the 
introduction of the International Statute of Secrecy or the downfall of 

  Albus Dumbledore was never proud or vain; he could find something to value in 
anyone, however apparently insignificant or wretched, and I believe that his 
early losses endowed him with great humanity and sympathy. I shall miss his 
friendship more than I can say, but my loss is nothing compared to the 
Wizarding world's. That he was the most inspiring and best loved of all 
Hogwarts headmasters cannot be in question. He died as he lived: working always 
for the

greater good and, to his last hour, as willing to stretch out a hand to a small 
boy with dragon pox as he was on the day I met him.

     Harry finished reading, but continued to gaze at the picture accompanying 
the obituary. Dumbledore was wearing his familiar, kindly smile, but as he 
peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles, he gave the impression, even 
in newsprint, of X-raying Harry, whose sadness mingled with a sense of 

     He had thought he knew Dumbledore quite well, but ever since reading this 
obituary he had been forced to recognize that he had barely known him at all. 
Never once had he imagined Dumbledore's childhood or youth; it was as though he 
had sprung into being as Harry had known him, venerable and silver-haired and 
old. The idea of a teenage Dumbledore was simply odd, like trying to imagine a 
stupid Hermione or a friendly Blast-Ended Skrewt.

     He had never thought to ask Dumbledore about his past. No doubt it would 
have felt strange, impertinent even, but after all it had been common knowledge 
that Dumbledore had taken part in that legendary duel with Grindelwald, and 
Harry had not thought to ask Dumbledore what that had been like, nor about any 
of his other famous achievements. No, they had always discussed Harry, Harry's 
past, Harry's future, Harry's plans... and it seemed to Harry now, despite the 
fact that his future was so dangerous and so uncertain, that he had missed 
irreplaceable opportunities when he had failed to ask Dumbledore more about 
himself, even though the only personal question he had ever asked his 
headmaster was also the only one he suspected that Dumbledore had not answered 

"What do you see when you look in the mirror? "

"I? I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks. "

     After several minutes' thought, Harry tore the obituary out of the 
Prophet, folded it carefully, and tucked it inside the first volume of 
Practical Defensive Magic and its Use against the Dark Arts. Then he threw the 
rest of the newspaper onto the rubbish pile and turned to face the room. It was 
much tidier. The only things left out of place were today's Daily Prophet, 
still lying on the bed, and on top of it, the piece of broken mirror.

     Harry moved across the room, slid the mirror fragment off today's Prophet, 
and unfolded the newspaper. He had merely glanced at the headline when he had 
taken the rolled-up paper from the delivery owl early that morning and thrown 
it aside, after noting that it said nothing about Voldemort. Harry was sure 
that the Ministry was leaning on the Prophet to suppress news about Voldemort. 
It was only now, therefore, that he saw what he had missed.

     Across the bottom half of the front page a smaller headline was set over a 
picture of Dumbledore striding along, looking harried:


Coming next week, the shocking story of the flawed genius considered by many to 
be the greatest wizard of his generation. Striping away the popular image of 
serene, silver-bearded wisdom, Rita Skeeter reveals the disturbed childhood, 
the lawless youth, the life-long feuds, and the guilty secrets that Dumbledore 
carried to his grave, WHY was the man tipped to be the Minister of Magic 
content to remain a mere headmaster? WHAT was the real purpose of the secret 
organization known as the Order of the Phoenix? HOW did Dumbledore really meet 
his end?

     The answers to these and many more questions are explored in the explosive 
new biography, The Life and Lies ofAlbus Dumbledore, by Rita Skeeter, 
exclusively interviewed by Berry Braithwaite, page 13, inside.

     Harry ripped open the paper and found page thirteen. The article was 
topped with a picture showing another familiar face: a woman wearing jeweled 
glasses with elaborately curled blonde hair, her teeth bared in what was 
clearly supposed to be a winning smile, wiggling her fingers up at him. Doing 
his best to ignore this nauseating image, Harry read on.

  In person, Rita Skeeter is much warmer and softer than her famously ferocious 
quill-portraits might suggest. Greeting me in the hallway of her cozy home, she 
leads me straight into the kitchen for a cup of tea, a slice of pound cake and, 
it goes without saying, a steaming vat of freshest gossip.

  "Well, of course, Dumbledore is a biographer's dream," says Skeeter. "Such a long, 
full life. I'm sure my book will be the first of very, very many."

  Skeeter was certainly quick off the mark. Her nine-hundred-page book was 
completed in a mere four weeks after Dumbledore's mysterious death in June. I 
ask her how she managed this superfast feat.

  "Oh, when you've been a journalist as long as I have, working to a deadline is 
second nature. I knew that the Wizarding world was clamoring for the full story and I 
wanted to be the first to meet that need."

  I mention the recent, widely publicized remarks of Elphias Doge, Special Advisor to the 
Wizengamot and longstanding friend of Albus Dumbledore's, that "Skeeter's book 
contains less fact than a Chocolate Frog card."

Skeeter throws back her head and laughs.

  "Darling Dodgy! I remember interviewing him a few years back about merpeople 
rights, bless him. Completely gaga, seemed to think we were sitting at the bottom of Lake 
Windermere, kept telling me to watch out for trout."

  And yet Elphias Doge's accusations of inaccuracy have been echoed in many 
places. Does Skeeter really feel that four short weeks have been enough to gain 
a full picture of Dumbledore's long and extraordinary life?

  "Oh, my dear," beams Skeeter, rapping me affectionately across the knuckles, "you 
know as well as I do how much information can be generated by a fat bag of Galleons, a refusal to 
hear the word 'no,' and a nice sharp Quick-Quotes Quill! People were queuing to dish the dirt on 
Dumbledore anyway. Not everyone thought he was so wonderful, you know - he trod on an awful lot of 
important toes. But old Dodgy Doge can get off his high hippogriff, because I've had access to a 
source most journalists would swap their wands for, one who has never spoken in public before and 
who was close to Dumbledore during the most turbulent and disturbing phase of his youth."

  The advance publicity for Skeeter's biography has certainly suggested that 
there will be shocks in store for those who believe Dumbledore to have led a 
blameless life. What were the biggest surprises she uncovered, I ask?

  "Now, come off it. Betty, I'm not giving away all the highlights before anybody's bought the 
book!" laughs Skeeter. "But I can promise that anybody who still thinks Dumbledore was 
white as his beard is in for a rude awakening! Let's just say that nobody hearing him rage against 
You-Know-Who would have dreamed that he dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth! And for a 
wizard who spent his later years pleading for tolerance, he wasn't exactly broad-minded when he was 
younger! Yes, Albus Dumbledore had an extremely murky past, not to mention that very fishy family, 
which he worked so hard to keep hushed up."

  I ask whether Skeeter is referring to Dumbledore's brother, Aberforth, whose 
conviction by the Wizengamot for misuse of magic caused a minor scandal fifteen 
years ago.

  "Oh, Aberforth is just the tip of the dung heap," laughs Skeeter. "No, no, 
I'm talking about much worse than a brother with a fondness for fiddling about with goats, 
worse even than the Muggle-maiming father - Dumbledore couldn't keep either of them quiet 
anyway, they were both charged by the Wizengamot. No, it's the mother and the sister that 
intrigued me, and a little digging uncovered a

positive nest of nastiness - but, as I say, you'll have to wait for chapters nine to 
twelve for full details. All I can say now is, it's no wonder Dumbledore never 
talked about how his nose got broken."

  Family skeletons notwithstanding, does Skeeter deny the brilliance that led 
to Dumbledore's many magical discoveries?

  "He had brains," she concedes, "although many now question whether he could really 
take full credit for all of his supposed achievements. As I reveal in chapter sixteen, Ivor 
Dillonsby claims he had already discovered eight uses of dragon's blood when Dumbledore 'borrowed' 
his papers."

  But the importance of some of Dumbledore's achievements cannot, I venture, be 
denied. What of his famous defeat of Grindelwald?

  "Oh, now, I'm glad you mentioned Grindelwald," says Skeeter with such a tantalizing 
smile. "I'm afraid those who go dewy-eyed over Dumbledore's spectacular victory must brace 
themselves for a bombshell - or perhaps a Dungbomb. Very dirty business indeed. All I'll say is, 
don't be so sure that there really was a spectacular duel of legend. After they've read my book, 
people may be forced to conclude that Grindelwald simply conjured a white handkerchief from the end 
of his wand and came quietly!"

  Skeeter refuses to give any more away on this intriguing subject, so we turn 
instead to the relationship that will undoubtedly fascinate her readers more 
than any other.

  "Oh yes," says Skeeter, nodding briskly, "I devote an entire chapter to the whole 
Potter-Dumbledore relationship. It's been called unhealthy, even sinister. Again, your readers will 
have to buy my book for the whole story, but there is no question that Dumbledore took an unnatural 
interest in Potter from the word go. Whether that was really in the boy's best interests - well, 
we'll see. It's certainly an open secret that Potter has had a most troubled adolescence."

  I ask whether Skeeter is still in touch with Harry Potter, whom she so 
famously interviewed last year: a breakthrough piece in which Potter spoke 
exclusively of his conviction that You-Know-Who had returned.

  "Oh, yes, we've developed a closer bond," says Skeeter. "Poor Potter has few real 
friends, and we met at one of the most testing moments of his life - the Triwizard Tournament. I am 
probably one of the only people alive who can say that they know the real Harry Potter."

  Which leads us neatly to the many rumors still circulating about Dumbledore's 
final hours. Does Skeeter believe that Potter was there when Dumbledore died?

  "Well, I don't want to say too much - it's all in the book - but eyewitnesses 
inside Hogwarts castle saw Potter running away from the scene moments after Dumbledore 
fell, jumped, or was pushed. Potter later gave evidence against Severus Snape, a man 
against whom he has a notorious grudge. Is everything as it seems? That is for the 
Wizarding community to decide - once they've read my book."

  On that intriguing note, I take my leave. There can be no doubt that Skeeter 
has quilled an instant bestseller. Dumbledore's legion of admirers, meanwhile, 
may well be trembling at what is soon to emerge about their hero.

     Harry reached the bottom of the article, but continued to stare blankly at 
the page. Revulsion and fury rose in him like vomit; he balled up the newspaper 
and threw it, with all his force, at the wall, where it joined the rest of the 
rubbish heaped around his overflowing bin.

     He began to stride blindly around the room, opening empty drawers and 
picking up books only to replace them on the same piles, barely conscious of 
what he was doing, as random phrases from Rita's article echoed in his head: An 
entire chapter to the whole Potter-Dumbledore relationship ... It's been called 
unhealthy, even sinister ... He dabbled in the Dark Arts himself in his youth 
... I've had access to a source most journalists would swap their wands for...

     "Lies!" Harry bellowed, and through the window he saw the next-door 
neighbor, who had paused to restart his lawn mower, look up nervously.

     Harry sat down hard on the bed. The broken bit of mirror danced away from 
him; he picked it up and turned it over in his fingers, thinking, thinking of 
Dumbledore and the lies with which Rita Skeeter was defaming him ...

     A flash of brightest blue. Harry froze, his cut finger slipping on the 
jagged edge of the mirror again. He had imagined it, he must have done. He 
glanced over his shoulder, but the wall was a sickly peach color of Aunt 
Petunia's choosing: There was nothing blue there for the mirror to reflect. He 
peered into the mirror fragment again, and saw nothing but his own bright green 
eye looking back at him.

     He had imagined it, there was no other explanation; imagined it, because 
he had been thinking of his dead headmaster. If anything was certain, it was 
that the bright blue eyes of Albus Dumbledore would never pierce him again.

Chapter Three

The Dursleys Departing

     The sound of the front door slamming echoed up the stairs and a voice roared, 
"Oh! You!"

     Sixteen years of being addressed thus left Harry in no doubt when his uncle was 
calling, nevertheless, he did not immediately respond. He was still at the narrow 
fragment in which, for a split second, he had thought he saw Dumbledore's eye. It was not 
until his uncle bellowed, "BOY!" that Harry got slowly out of bed and headed 
for the bedroom door, pausing to add the piece of broken mirror to the rucksack filled 
with things he would be taking with him.

     "You took you time!" roared Vernon Dursley when Harry appeared at the top of the 
stairs, "Get down here. I want a word!"

     Harry strolled downstairs, his hands deep in his pants pockets. When he 
searched the living room he found all three Dursleys. They were dressed for 
packing; Uncle Vernon in an old ripped-up jacket and Dudley, Harry's, large, 
blond, muscular cousin, in his leather jacket.

"Yes?" asked Harry.

     "Sit down!" said Uncle Vernon. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Please!" added 
Uncle Vernon, wincing slightly as though the word was sharp in his throat. Harry sat. He though he 
knew what was coming. His uncle began to pace up and down, Aunt Petunia and Dudley, following his 
movement with anxious expressions. Finally, his large purple face crumpled with concentration. 
Uncle Vernon stopped in front of Harry and spoke.

"I've changed my mind," he said.

"What a surprise," said Harry.

     "Don't you take that tone?" began Aunt Petunia in a shrill voice, but 
Vernon Dursley waved her down

     "It's all a lot of claptrap," said Uncle Vernon, glaring at Harry with piggy little 
eyes. "I've decided I don't believe a word of it. We're staying put, we're not going 

     Harry looked up at his uncle and felt a mixture of exasperation and 
amusement. Vernon Dursley had been changing his mind every twenty four hours 
for the past four weeks, packing and unpacking and repacking the car with every 
change of heart. Harry's favorite moment had been the one when Uncle Vernon, 
unaware the Dudley had added his dumbbells to his case since the last time it 
been repacked, had attempted to hoist it back into the boot and collapsed with 
a yelp of pain and much swearing.

     "According to you," Vernon Dursley said, now resuming his pacing up and down the 
living room, "we - Petunia, Dudley, and I - are in danger. From - from -"

"Some of 'my lot' right?" said Harry

     "Well I don't believe it," repeated Uncle Vernon, coming to a halt in front of Harry 
again. "I was awake half the night thinking it all over, and I believe it's a plot to get the 

"The house?" repeated Harry. "What house?"

     "This house!" shrieked Uncle Vernon, the vein his forehead starting to pulse. 
"Our house! House prices are skyrocketing around here! You want us out of the way and

then you're going to do a bit of hocus pocus and before we know it the deeds will be 
in your name and -"

     "Are you out of your mind?" demanded Harry. "A plot to get this house? Are you 
actually as stupid as you look?"

     "Don't you dare ?!" squealed Aunt Petunia, but again Vernon waved her 
down. Slights on his personal appearance were it seemed as nothing to the danger he had 

     "Just in case you've forgotten," said Harry, "I've already got a house my 
godfather left me one. So why would I want this one? All the happy memories?"

     There was silence. Harry thought he had rather impressed his uncle with 
this argument.

"You claim," said Uncle Vernon, starting to pace yet again, "that this Lord 


     "?Voldemort," said Harry impatiently, "and we've been through this about a 
hundred times already. This isn't a claim, it's fact. Dumbledore told you last year, and Kingsley 
and Mr. Weasley -"

     Vernon Dursley hunched his shoulders angrily, and Harry guessed that his 
uncle was attempting to ward off recollections of the unannounced visit, a few 
days into Harry's summer holidays, of two fully grown wizards. The arrival on 
the doorstep of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley had come as a most 
unpleasant shock to the Dursleys. Harry had to admit, however that as Mr. 
Weasley had once demolished half of the living room, his reappearance could not 
have been expected to delight Uncle Vernon.

     "?Kingsley and Mr. Weasley explained it all as well," Harry pressed on 
remorselessly, "Once I'm seventeen, the protective charm that keeps me safe will break, and 
that exposes you as well as me. The Order is sure Voldemort will target you, whether to torture you 
to try and find out where I am, or because he thinks by holding you hostage I'd come and try to 
rescue you."

     Uncle Vernon's and Harry's eyes met. Harry was sure that in that instant they were 
both wondering the same thing. Then Uncle Vernon walked on and Harry resumed, 
"You've got to go into hiding and the Order wants to help. You're being offered 
serious protection, the best there is."

     Uncle Vernon said nothing but continued to pace up and down. Outside the 
sun hung low over the privet hedges. The next door neighbor's lawn mower 
stalled again.

"I thought there was a Ministry of Magic?" asked Vernon Dursley abruptly.

     "There is," said Harry, surprised. "Well, then, why can't they protect us? It 
seems to me that, as innocent victims, guilty of nothing more than harboring a marked man, we ought 
to qualify for government protection!"

     Harry laughed; he could not help himself. It was so very typical of his uncle to put 
his hopes in the establishment, even within this world that he despised and mistrusted. 
"You heard what Mr. Weasley and Kingsley said," Harry replied.

"We think the Ministry has been infiltrated."

     Uncle Vernon strode back to the fireplace and back breathing so strongly 
that his great black mustache rippled his face still purple with concentration.

     "All right," he said. Stopping in front of Harry get again. "All right, let's 
say for the sake of argument we accept this protection. I still don't see why we can't have that 
Kingsley bloke."

     Harry managed not to roll his eyes, but with difficulty. This question had 
also been addressed half a dozen times.

     "As I've told you," he said through gritted teeth, "Kingsley is protecting the 
Mug - I mean, your Prime Minister."

     "Exactly - he's the best!" said Uncle Vernon, pointing at the blank 
television screen. The Dursleys had spotted Kingsley on the news, walking along the 
Muggle Prime Minister as he visited a hospital. This, and the fact that Kingsley had 
mastered the knack of dressing like a Muggle, not to mention a certain reassuring 
something in his slow, deep voice, had caused the Dursleys to take to Kingsley in a way 
that they had certainly not done with any other wizard, although it was true that they 
had never seen him with earring in.

     "Well, he's taken," said Harry. "But Hestia Jones and Dedalus Diggle are more 
than up to the job -"

     "If we'd even seen CVs..." began Uncle Vernon, but Harry lost patience. 
Getting to his feet, he advanced on his uncle, not pointing at the TV set himself.

     "These accidents aren't accidents - the crashed and explosions and derailments 
and whatever else has happened since we last watched the news. People are disappearing 
and dying and he's behind it - Voldemort. I've told you this over and over again, he 
kills Muggles for fun. Even the fogs - they're caused by dementors, and if you can't 
remember what they are, ask your son!"

     Dudley's hands jerked upward to tower his mouth. With his parents' and Harry's eyes upon him, he slowly 
lowered them again and asked, "There are... more of them?" "More?" laughed Harry. 
"More than the two that attacked us, you mean? Of course there are hundreds, maybe thousands by this 
time, seeing as they feed off fear and despair?"

     "All right, all right blustered," blustered Vernon Dursley. "You've made your 
point -"

     "I hope so," said Harry, "because once I'm seventeen, all of them - Death 
Eaters, elementors, maybe even Inferi - which means dead bodies enchanted by a Dark wizard -will be 
able to find you and will certainly attack you. And if you remember the last time you tried to 
outrun wizards, I think you'll agree you need help."

     There was a brief silence in which the distant echo of Hagrid smashing down a wooden 
front door seemed to reverberate through the intervening years. Aunt Petunia was looking 
at Uncle Vernon; Dudley was staring at Harry. Finally Uncle Vernon blurted out, "But 
what about my work? What about Dudley's school? I don't suppose those things matter to a 
bunch of layabout wizards -"

     "Don't you understand?" shouted Harry. "They will torture and kill you like 
they did my parents!"

"Dad," said Dudley in a loud voice, "Dad - I'm going with these Order people."

     "Dudley," said Harry, "for the first time in your life, you're talking 
sense." He knew the battle was won. If Dudley was frightened enough to accept the Order's 
help, his parents would accompany him. There could be no question of being separated from their 
Duddykins. Harry glanced at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece.

     "They'll be here in about five minutes, he said, and when one of the 
Dursleys replied, he left the room. The prospect of parting?probably forever - from 
his aunt, uncle, and cousin was one that he was able to contemplate quite cheerfully 
but there was nevertheless a certain awkwardness in the air. What did you say to one 
another at the end of sixteen years' solid dislike?

     Back in his bedroom, Harry fiddled aimlessly with his rucksack then poked 
a couple of owl nuts through the bats of Hedwig's cage. They fell with dull 
thuds to the bottom where she ignored them.

     "We're leaving soon, really soon," Harry told her. "And then you'll be able to 
fly again."

     The doorbell rang. Harry hesitated, then headed back out of his room and 
downstairs. It was too much to expect Hestia and Dedalus to cope with the 
Dursleys on their own.

     "Harry Potter!" squeaked an excited voice, the moment Harry had opened the door; a 
small man in a mauve top hat that was sweeping him a deep bow. "An honor as ever!"

     "Thanks, Dedalus," said Harry, bestowing a small and embarrassed smile upon the dark 
haired Hestia. "It's really good of you to do this... They're through here, my aunt and uncle 
and cousin..."

     "Good day to you, Harry Potter's relatives!" said Dedalus happily striding 
into the living room. The Dursleys did not look at all happy to be addressed thus; Harry 
half expected another change of mind. Dudley shrank neared to his mother at the sight of 
the witch and wizard.

     "I see you are packed and ready. Excellent! The plan, as Harry has told you, is a simple 
one," said Dedalus, pulling an immense pocket watch out of his waistcoat and examining it. 
"We shall be leaving before Harry does. Due to the danger of using magic in your house -Harry 
being still underage it could provide the Ministry with an excuse to arrest him - we shall be 
driving, say, ten miles or so before Disapparating to the safe location we have picked out for you. 
You know how to drive, I take it?" He asked Uncle Vernon politely.

     "Know how to -? Of course I ruddy well know how to drive!" spluttered 
Uncle Vernon.

     "Very clever of you, sir, very clever. I personally would be utterly bamboozled 
by all those buttons and knobs," said Dedalus. He was clearly under the impression 
that he was flattering Vernon Dursley, who was visibly losing confidence in the plan with 
every word Dedalus spoke.

     "Can't even drive," he muttered under his breath, his mustache rippling 
indignantly, but fortunately neither Dedalus nor Hestia seemed to hear him.

     "You, Harry," Dedalus continued, "will wait here for your guard. There has been 
a little change in the arrangements -"

     "What d'you mean?" said Harry at once. "I thought Mad-Eye was going to come and 
take me by Side Along-Apparition?"

"Can't do it," said Hestia tersely, "Mad-Eye will explain."

     The Dursleys, who had listened to all of this with looks of utter incomprehension on 
their faces, jumped as a loud voice screeched, "Hurry up!" Harry looked all 
around the room before realizing the voice had issued from Dedalus's pocket watch.

     "Quite right, were operating to a very tight schedule," said Dedalus nodding at his watch and 
tucking it back into his waist coat. "We are attempting to time your departure from the house with your 
family's Disapparition, Harry thus the charm breaks the moment you all head for safety." He turned to 
the Dursleys, "Well, are we all packed and ready to go?"

     None of them answered him. Uncle Vernon was still staring appalled at the 
bulge in Dedalus's waistcoat pocket.

     "Perhaps we should wait outside in the hall, Dedalus," murmured Hestia. 
She clearly felt that it would be tactless for them to remain the room while Harry and 
the Dursleys exchanged loving, possibly tearful farewells.

     "There's no need," Harry muttered, but Uncle Vernon made any further 
explanation unnecessary by saying loudly,

"Well, this is good-bye then boy."

     He swung his right arm upward to shake Harry's hand, but at the last 
moment seemed unable to face it, and merely closed his fist and began swinging 
it backward and forward like a metronome.

     "Ready, Duddy?" asked Petunia, fussily checking the clasp of her handbag 
so as to avoid looking at Harry altogether.

     Dudley did not answer but stood there with his mouth slightly ajar, 
reminding Harry a little of the giant, Grawp.

"Come along, then," said Uncle Vernon.

     He had already reached the living room door when Dudley mumbled, "I don't 

"What don't you understand, popkin?" asked Petunia looking up at her son.

Dudley raised a large, hamlike hand to point at Harry.

"Why isn't he coming with us?

     Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia froze when they stood staring at Dudley as 
though he had just expressed a desire to become a ballerina.

"What?" said Uncle Vernon loudly.

"Why isn't he coming too?" asked Dudley.

     "Well, he?doesn't want to," said Uncle Vernon, turning to glare at Harry and adding, 
"You don't want to, do you?"

"Not in the slightest," said Harry.

"There you are," Uncle Vernon told Dudley. "Now come on we're off."

     He marched out of the room. They heard the front door open, but Dudley did 
not move and after a few faltering steps Aunt Petunia stopped too.

"What now?" barked Uncle Vernon, reappearing in the doorway.

     It seemed that Dudley was struggling with concepts too difficult to put into words. 
After several moments of apparently painful internal struggle he said, "But where's 
he going to go?"

     Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon looked at each other. It was clear that 
Dudley was frightening them. Hestia Jones broke the silence.

     "But... surely you know where your nephew is going?" she asked looking 

     "Certainly we know," said Vernon Dursley. "He's off with some of your lot, 
isn't he? Right, Dudley, let's get in the car, you heard the man, we're in a hurry.

     Again, Vernon Dursley marched as far as the front door, but Dudley did not 

"Off with some of our lot?"

     Hestia looked outraged. Harry had met this attitude before Witches and 
wizards seemed stunned that his closed living relatives took so little interest 
in the famous Harry Potter.

"It's fine," Harry assured her. "It doesn't matter, honestly."

"Doesn't matter?" repeated Hestia, her voice rising considerably.

     "Don't these people realize what you've been through? What danger you are in? 
The unique position you hold in the hearts of the anti Voldemort movement?"

     "Er -no, they don't," said Harry. "They think I'm a waste of space, actually 
but I'm used to -"

"I don't think you're a waste of space"

     If Harry had not seen Dudley's lips move, he might not have believed it. 
As it was, he stared at Dudley for several seconds before accepting that it 
must have been his cousin who had spoken; for one thing, Dudley had turned red. 
Harry was embarrassed and astonished himself.

"Well... er... thanks, Dudley."

     Again, Dudley appeared to grapple with thoughts too unwieldy for expression before 
mumbling, "You saved my life,"

"Not really," said Harry. "It was your soul the dementor would have taken..."

     He looked curiously at his cousin. They had had virtually no contact 
during this summer or last, as Harry had come back to Privet Drive so briefly 
and kept to his room so much. It now dawned on Harry, however, that the cup of 
cold tea on which he had trodden that morning might not have been a booby trap 
at all. Although rather touched he was nevertheless quite relieved that Dudley 
appeared to have exhausted his ability to express his feelings. After opening 
his mouth once or twice more, Dudley subsided into scarlet-faced silence.

     Aunt Petunia burst into tears. Hestia Jones gave her an approving look that changed to outrage 
as Aunt Petunia ran forward and embraced Dudley rather than Harry. "S-so sweet, 
Dudders..." she sobbed into his massive chest. "S-such a lovely b-boy... s-saying thank 

     "But he hasn't said thank you at all!" said Hestia indignantly. "He only said 
he didn't think Harry was a waste of space!"

     "Yea but coming from Dudley that's like T love you,'" said Harry, torn 
between annoyance and a desire to laugh as Aunt Petunia continued to clutch at Dudley as 
if he had just saved Harry from a burning building.

     "Are we going or not?" roared Uncle Vernon, reappearing yet again at the living room 
door. "I thought we were on a tight schedule!"

     "Yes -yes, we are," said Dedalus Diggle, who had been watching these exchanged with 
an air of bemusement and now seemed to pull himself together. "We really must be off. Harry 

He tripped forward and wrung Harry's hand with both of his own.

     "?good luck. I hope we meet again. The hopes of the Wizarding world rest upon 
your shoulders."

"Oh," said Harry, "right. Thanks."

"Farwell, Harry," said Hestia also clasping his hand. "Our thoughts go with 

     "I hope everything's okay," said Harry with a glance toward Aunt Petunia 
and Dudley.

     "Oh I'm sure we shall end up the best of chums," said Diggle slightly, 
waving his hat as he left the room. Hestia followed him.

     Dudley gently released himself from his mother's clutches and walked 
toward Harry who had to repress an urge to threaten him with magic. Then Dudley 
held out his large, pink hand.

     "Blimey, Dudley," said Harry over Aunt Petunia's renewed sobs, "did the 
dementors blow a different personality into you?"

"Dunno," muttered Dudley, "See you, Harry."

     "Yea ..." said Harry, raking Dudley's hand and shaking it. "Maybe. Take care, 

     Dudley nearly smiled. They lumbered from the room. Harry heard his heavy 
footfalls on the graveled drive, and then a car door slammed.

     Aunt Petunia whose face had been buried in her handkerchief looked around at the 
sound. She did not seem to have expected to find herself alone with Harry. Hastily 
stowing her wet handkerchief into her pocket, she said, "Well - good-bye" and 
marched towards the door without looking at him.

"Good-bye" said Harry.

     She stopped and looked back. For a moment Harry had the strangest feeling 
that she wanted to say something to him; She gave him an odd, tremulous look 
and seemed to teeter on the edge of speech, but then, with a little of her 
head, she hustled out of the room after he husband and son.

Chapter Four The Seven Potters

     Harry ran back upstairs to his bedroom, arriving at the window just in 
time to see the Dursleys' car swinging out of the drive and off up the road. 
Dedalus's top hat was visible between Aunt Petunia and Dudley in the backseat. 
The car turned right at the end of Privet Drive, its windows burned scarlet for 
a moment in the now setting sun, and then it was gone.

     Harry picked up Hedwig's cage, his Firebolt, and his rucksack, gave his 
unnaturally tidy bedroom one last sweeping look, and then made his ungainly way 
back downstairs to the hall, where he deposited cage, broomstick, and bag near 
the foot of the stairs. The light was fading rapidly, the hall full of shadows 
in the evening light. It felt most strange to stand here in the silence and 
know that he was about to leave the house for the last time. Long ago, when he 
had been left alone while the Dursleys went out to enjoy themselves, the hours 
of solitude had been a rare treat. Pausing only to sneak something tasty from 
the fridge, he had rushed upstairs to play on Dudley's computer, or put on the 
television and flicked through the channels to his heart's content. It gave him 
an odd, empty feeling remembering those times; it was like remembering a 
younger brother whom he had lost.

     "Don't you want to take a last look at the place?" he asked Hedwig, who was still 
sulking with her head under her wing. "We'll never be here again. Don't you want to remember 
all the good times? I mean, look at this doormat. What memories ... Dudley sobbed on it after I 
saved him from the dementors ... Turns out he was grateful after all, can you believe it? ... And 
last summer, Dumbledore walked through that front door ..."

     Harry lost the thread of his thoughts for a moment and Hedwig did nothing 
to help him retrieve it, but continued to sit with her head under her wing. 
Harry turned his back on the front door.

     "And under here, Hedwig" - Harry pulled open a door under the stairs - "is 
where I used to sleep! You never knew me then - Blimey, it's small, I'd forgotten ..."

     Harry looked around at the stacked shoes and umbrellas remembering how he 
used to wake every morning looking up at the underside of the staircase, which 
was more often than not adorned with a spider or two. Those had been the days 
before he had known anything about his true identity; before he had found out 
how his parents had died or why such strange things often happened around him. 
But Harry could still remember the dreams that had dogged him, even in those 
days: confused dreams involving flashes of green light and once - Uncle Vernon 
had nearly crashed the car when Harry had recounted it - a flying motorbike ...

     There was a sudden, deafening roar from somewhere nearby. Harry 
straightened up with a jerk and smacked the top of his head on the low door 
frame. Pausing only to employ a few of Uncle Vernon's choicest swear words, he 
staggered back into the kitchen, clutching his head and staring out of the 
window into the back garden.

     The darkness seemed to be rippling, the air itself quivering. Then, one by 
one, figures began to pop into sight as their Disillusionment Charms lifted. 
Dominating the scene was Hagrid, wearing a helmet and goggles and sitting 
astride an enormous motorbike with a black sidecar attached. All around him 
other people were dismounting from brooms and, in two cases, skeletal, black 
winged horses.

     Wrenching open the back door, Harry hurtled into their midst. There was a general 
cry of greeting as Hermione flung her arms around him, Ron clapped him on the back, and 
Hagrid said, "All righ', Harry? Ready fer the off?"

     "Definitely," said Harry, beaming around at them all. "But I wasn't expecting 
this many of you!"

     "Change of plan," growled Mad-Eye, who was holding two enormous bulging sacks, and 
whose magical eye was spinning from darkening sky to house to garden with dizzying rapidity. 
"Let's get undercover before we talk you through it."

     Harry led them all back into the kitchen where, laughing and chattering, 
they settled on chairs, sat themselves upon Aunt Petunia's gleaming work 
surfaces, or leaned up against her spotless appliances; Ron, long and lanky; 
Hermione, her bushy hair tied back in a long plait; Fred and George, grinning 
identically; Bill, badly scarred and longhaired; Mr. Weasley, kind-faced, 
balding, his spectacles a little awry; Mad-Eye, battle-worn, one-legged, his 
bright blue magical eye whizzing in its socket; Tonks, whose short hair was her 
favorite shade of bright pink; Lupin, grayer, more lined; Fleur, slender and 
beautiful, with her long silvery blonde hair; Kingsley, bald and 
broad-shouldered; Hagrid, with his wild hair and beard, standing hunchbacked to 
avoid hitting his head on the ceiling; and Mundungus Fletcher, small, dirty, 
and hangdog, with his droopy beady hound's eyes and matted hair. Harry's heart 
seemed to expand and glow at the sight: He

felt incredibly fond of all of them, even Mundungus, whom he had tried to 
strangle the last time they had met.

     "Kingsley, I thought you were looking after the Muggle Prime Minister?" he 
called across the room.

     "He can get along without me for one night," said Kingsley, "You're more 

     "Harry, guess what?" said Tonks from her perch on top of the washing 
machine, and she wiggled her left hand at him; a ring glistened there.

"You got married?" Harry yelped, looking from her to Lupin.

"I'm sorry you couldn't be there, Harry, it was very quiet."

"That's brilliant, congrat-"

     "All right, all right, we'll have time for a cozy catch-up later," roared Moody over 
the hubbub, and silence fell in the kitchen. Moody dropped his sacks at his feet and turned to 
Harry. "As Dedalus probably told you, we had to abandon Plan A. Pius Thicknesse has gone over, 
which gives us a big problem. He's made it an imprisonable offense to connect this house to the 
Floo Network, place a Portkey here, or Apparate in or out. All done in the name of your protection, 
to prevent You-Know-Who getting in at you. Absolutely pointless, seeing as your mother's charm does 
that already. What he's really done is to stop you getting out of here safely."

     "Second problem: You're underage, which means you've still got the Trace on 

"I don't -"

     "The Trace, the Trace!" said Mad-Eye impatiently. "The charm that detects 
magical activity around under-seventeens, the way the Ministry finds out about underage magic! If 
you, or anyone around you, casts a spell to get you out of here, Thicknesse is going to know about 
it, and so will the Death Eaters."

     "We can't wait for the Trace to break, because the moment you turn seventeen 
you'll lose all the protection your mother gave you. In short, Pius Thicknesse thinks 
he's got you cornered good and proper."

Harry could not help but agree with the unknown Thicknesse.

"So what are we going to do?"

     "We're going to use the only means of transport left to us, the only ones the 
Trace can't detect, because we don't need to cast spells to use them: brooms, thestrals, 
and Hagrid's motorbike."

     Harry could see flaws in this plan; however, he held his tongue to give 
Mad-Eye the chance to address them.

     "Now, your mother's charm will only break under two conditions: when you come of age, 
or" - Moody gestured around the pristine kitchen - "you no longer call this place home. 
You and your aunt and uncle are going your separate ways tonight, in the full understanding that 
you're never going to live together again, correct?"

Harry nodded.

     "So this time, when you leave, there'll be no going back, and the charm 
will break the moment you get outside its range. We're choosing to break it early, 
because the alternative is waiting for You-Know-Who to come and seize you the moment 
you turn seventeen.

     "The one thing we've got on our side is that You-Know-Who doesn't know we're 
moving you tonight. We've leaked a fake trail to the Ministry: They think you're not 
leaving until the thirtieth. However, this is You-Know-Who we're dealing with, so we 
can't rely on him getting the date wrong; he's bound to have a couple of Death Eaters 
patrolling the skies in this general area, just in case. So, we've given a dozen 
different houses every protection we can throw at them. They all look like they could be 
the place we're going to hide you, they've all got some connection with the Order: my 
house, Kingsley's place, Molly's Auntie Muriel's - you get the idea."

     "Yeah," said Harry, not entirely truthfully, because he could still spot a 
gaping hole in the plan.

     "You'll be going to Tonks's parents. Once you're within the boundaries of the 
protective enchantments we've put on their house you'll be able to use a Portkey to the 
Burrow. Any questions?"

     "Er - yes," said Harry. "Maybe they won't know which of the twelve secure houses I'm 
heading for at first, but won't it be sort of obvious once" - he performed a quick headcount - 
"fourteen of us fly off toward Tonks's parents?"

     "Ah," said Moody, "I forgot to mention the key point. Fourteen of us won't be 
flying to Tonks's parents. There will be seven Harry Potters moving through the skies tonight, each 
of them with a companion, each pair heading for a different safe house."

     From inside his cloak Moody now withdrew a flask of what looked like mud. 
There was no need for him to say another word; Harry understood the rest of the 
plan immediately.

"No!" he said loudly, his voice ringing through the kitchen. "No way!"

"I told them you'd take it like this," said Hermione with a hint of complacency.

"If you think I'm going to let six people risk their lives ? !"

"?because it's the first time for all of us," said Ron.

"This is different, pretending to be me -"

     "Well, none of us really fancy it, Harry," said Fred earnestly. "Imagine if 
something went wrong and we were stuck as specky, scrawny gits forever."

Harry did not smile.

"You can't do it if I don't cooperate, you need me to give you some hair."

     "Well, that's the plan scuppered," said George. "Obviously there's no chance at 
all of us getting a bit of your hair unless you cooperate."

     "Yeah, thirteen of us against one bloke who's not allowed to use magic; we've 
got no chance," said Fred.

"Funny," said Harry, "really amusing."

     "If it has to come to force, then it will," growled Moody, his magical eye now 
quivering a little in its socket as he glared at Harry. "Everyone here's overage, Potter, and 
they're all prepared to take the risk."

     Mundungus shrugged and grimaced; the magical eye swerved sideways to 
glance at him out of the side of Moody's head.

     "Let's have no more arguments. Time's wearing on. I want a few of your hairs, 
boy, now."

"But this is mad, there's no need -"

     "No need!" snarled Moody. "With You-Know-Who out there and half the 
Ministry on his side? Potter, if we're lucky he'll have swallowed the fake bait and he'll

be planning to ambush you on the thirtieth, but he'd be mad not to have a Death 
Eater or two keeping an eye out, it's what I'd do. They might not be able to get at 
you or this house while your mother's charm holds, but it's about to break and they 
know the rough position of the place. Our only chance is to use decoys. Even 
You-Know-Who can't split himself into seven."

Harry caught Hermione's eye and looked away at once.

"So, Potter - some of your hair, if you please."

Harry glanced at Ron, who grimaced at him in a just-do-it sort of way.

"Now!" barked Moody.

     With all of their eyes upon him, Harry reached up to the top of his head, 
grabbed a hank of hair, and pulled.

     "Good," said Moody, limping forward as he pulled the stopper out of the flask of 
potion. "Straight in here, if you please."

     Harry dropped the hair into the mudlike liquid. The moment it made contact 
with its surface, the potion began to froth and smoke, then, all at once, it 
turned a clear, bright gold.

     "Ooh, you look much tastier than Crabbe and Goyle, Harry," said Hermione, before 
catching sight of Ron's raised eyebrows, blushing slightly, and saying, "Oh, you know what I 
mean - Goyle's potion tasted like bogies."

"Right then, fake Potters line up over here, please," said Moody.

     Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Fleur lined up in front of Aunt Petunia's 
gleaming sink.

"We're one short," said Lupin.

     "Here," said Hagrid gruffly, and he lifted Mundungus by the scruff of the 
neck and dropped him down beside Fleur, who wrinkled her nose pointedly and moved along 
to stand between Fred and George instead.

"I'm a soldier, I'd sooner be a protector," said Mundungus.

     "Shut it," growled Moody. "As I've already told you, you spineless worm, any 
Death Eaters we run into will be aiming to capture Potter, not kill him. Dumbledore always said 
You-Know-Who would want to finish Potter in person. It'll be the protectors who have got the most 
to worry about, the Death Eaters'll want to kill them."

     Mundungus did not look particularly reassured, but Moody was already 
pulling half a dozen eggcup-sized glasses from inside his cloak, which he 
handed out, before pouring a little Polyjuice Potion into each one.

"Altogether, then ..."

     Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, Fleur, and Mundungus drank. All of them 
gasped and grimaced as the potion hit their throats; At once, their features 
began to bubble and distort like hot wax. Hermione and Mundungus were shooting 
upward; Ron, Fred, and George were shrinking; their hair was darkening, 
Hermione's and Fleur's appearing to shoot backward into their skulls.

     Moody, quite unconcerned, was now loosening the ties of the large sacks he 
had brought with him. When he straightened up again, there were six Harry 
Potters gasping and panting in front of him.

Fred and George turned to each other and said together, "Wow - we're identical!"

     "I dunno, though, I think I'm still better-looking," said Fred, examining 
his reflection in the kettle.

     "Bah," said Fleur, checking herself in the microwave door, "Bill, don't look at 
me - I'm 'ideous."

     "Those whose clothes are a bit roomy, I've got smaller here," said Moody, indicating 
the first sack, "and vice versa. Don't forget the glasses, there's six pairs in the side 
pocket. And when you're dressed, there's luggage in the other sack."

     The real Harry thought that this might just be the most bizarre thing he 
had ever seen, and he had seen some extremely odd things. He watched as his six 
doppelgangers rummaged in the sacks, pulling out sets of clothes, putting on 
glasses, stuffing their own things away. He felt like asking them to show a 
little more respect for privacy as they all began stripping off with impunity, 
clearly more at ease with displaying his body than they would have been with 
their own.

     "I knew Ginny was lying about that tattoo," said Ron, looking down at his 
bare chest.

"Harry, your eyesight really is awful," said Hermione, as she put on glasses.

     Once dressed, the fake Harrys took rucksacks and owl cages, each 
containing a stuffed snowy owl, from the second sack.

     "Good," said Moody, as at last seven dressed, bespectacled, and luggage-laden Harrys 
faced him. "The pairs will be as follows: Mundungus will be traveling with me, by broom -"

"Why'm I with you?" grunted the Harry nearest the back door.

     "Because you're the one that needs watching," growled Moody, and sure enough, his 
magical eye did not waver from Mundungus as he continued, "Arthur and Fred -"

     "I'm George," said the twin at whom Moody was pointing. "Can't you even tell us 
apart when we're Harry?"

"Sorry, George -"

"I'm only yanking your wand, I'm Fred really -"

     "Enough messing around!" snarled Moody. "The other one - George or Fred or 
whoever you are - you're with Remus. Miss Delacour -"

"I'm taking Fleur on a thestral," said Bill. "She's not that fond of brooms."

     Fleur walked over to stand beside him, giving him a soppy, slavish look 
that Harry hoped with all his heart would never appear on his face again.

"Miss Granger with Kingsley, again by thestral -"

     Hermione looked reassured as she answered Kingsley's smile; Harry knew 
that Hermione too lacked confidence on a broomstick.

     "Which leaves you and me, Ron!" said Tonks brightly, knocking over a mug 
tree as she waved at him.

Ron did not look quite as pleased as Hermione.

     "An' you're with me, Harry. That all righ'?" said Hagrid, looking a little anxious. 
"We'll be on the bike, brooms an' thestrals can't take me weight, see. Not a lot o' room on 
the seat with me on it, though, so you'll be in the sidecar."

"That's great," said Harry, not altogether truthfully.

     "We think the Death Eaters will expect you to be on a broom," said Moody, who seemed 
to guess how Harry was feeling. "Snape's had plenty of time to tell them everything about you 
he's never mentioned before, so if we do run into any Death Eaters, we're betting they'll choose 
one of the Potters who looks at home on a broomstick. All right then," he went on, tying up 
the sack with the fake Potters' clothes in it and leading

the way back to the door, "I make it three minutes until we're supposed to leave. No 
point locking the back door, it won't keep the Death Eaters out when they come looking. 
Come on ..."

     Harry hurried to gather his rucksack, Firebolt, and Hedwig's cage and 
followed the group to the dark back garden.

     On every side broomsticks were leaping into hands; Hermione had already 
been helped up onto a great black thestral by Kingsley, Fleur onto the other by 
Bill. Hagrid was standing ready beside the motorbike, goggles on.

"Is this it? Is this Sirius's bike?"

     "The very same," said Hagrid, beaming down at Harry. "An' the last time yeh was 
on it, Harry, I could fit yeh in one hand!"

     Harry could not help but feel a little humiliated as he got into the 
sidecar. It placed him several feet below everybody else: Ron smirked at the 
sight of him sitting there like a child in a bumper car. Harry stuffed his 
rucksack and broomstick down by his feet and rammed Hedwig's cage between his 
knees. He was extremely uncomfortable.

     "Arthur's done a bit o' tinkerin'," said Hagrid, quite oblivious to Harry's 
discomfort. He settled himself astride the motorcycle, which creaked slightly and sank inches into 
the ground. "It's got a few tricks up its sleeves now. Tha' one was my idea." He pointed 
a thick finger at a purple button near the speedometer.

     "Please be careful, Hagrid." said Mr. Weasley, who was standing beside them, holding 
his broomstick. "I'm still not sure that was advisable and it's certainly only to be used in 

     "All right, then." said Moody. "Everyone ready, please. I want us all to leave 
at exactly the same time or the whole point of the diversion's lost."

     Everybody motioned their heads. "Hold tight now, Ron," said Tonks, and 
Harry saw Ron throw a forcing, guilty look at Lupin before placing his hands on each side 
of her waist. Hagrid kicked the motorbike into life: It roared like a dragon, and the 
sidecar began to vibrate.

     "Good luck, everyone," shouted Moody. "See you all in about an hour at the 
Burrow. On the count of three. One ... two .. THREE."

     There was a great roar from the motorbike, and Harry felt the sidecar give 
a nasty lurch. He was rising through the air fast, his eyes watering slightly, 
hair whipped back off his face. Around him brooms were soaring upward too; the 
long black tail of a thestral flicked past. His legs, jammed into the sidecar 
by Hedwig's cage and his rucksack, were already sore and starting to go numb. 
So great was his discomfort that he almost forgot to take a last glimpse of 
number four Privet Drive. By the time he looked over the edge of the sidecar he 
could no longer tell which one it was.

     And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, they were surrounded. At least 
thirty hooded figures, suspended in midair, formed a vast circle in the middle 
of which the Order members had risen, oblivious -

     Screams, a blaze of green light on every side: Hagrid gave a yell and the 
motorbike rolled over. Harry lost any sense of where they were. Streetlights 
above him, yells around him, he was clinging to the sidecar for dear life. 
Hedwig's cage, the Firebolt, and his rucksack slipped from beneath his knees -


     The broomstick spun too, but he just managed to seize the strap of his 
rucksack and the top of the cage as the motorbike swung the right way up again. 
A second's relief, and then another burst of green light. The owl screeched and 
fell to the floor of the cage.


     The motorbike zoomed forward; Harry glimpsed hooded Death Eaters 
scattering as Hagrid blasted through their circle.

"Hedwig - Hedwig -"

     But the owl lay motionless and pathetic as a toy on the floor of her cage. 
He could not take it in, and his terror for the others was paramount. He 
glanced over his shoulder and saw a mass of people moving, flares of green 
light, two pairs of people on brooms soaring off into the distance, but he 
could not tell who they were -

     "Hagrid, we've got to go back, we've got to go back!" he yelled over the thunderous 
roar of the engine, pulling out his wand, ramming Hedwig's cage into the floor, refusing to believe 
that she was dead. "Hagrid, TURN AROUND!"

     "My job's ter get you there safe, Harry!" bellow Hagrid, and he opened the throttle. 
"Stop - STOP!" Harry shouted, but as he looked back again two jets of green light flew past his 
left ear: Four Death Eaters had broken away from the circle and were pursuing them, aiming for Hagrid's broad 
back. Hagrid swerved, but the Death Eaters were keeping up with the bike; more curses shot after them, and 
Harry had to sink low into the sidecar to avoid them. Wriggling around he cried, "Stupefy!" and a 
red bolt of light shot from his own wand, cleaving a gap between the four pursuing Death Eaters as they 
scattered to avoid it.

     "Hold on, Harry, this'll do for 'em!" roared Hagrid, and Harry looked up 
just in time to see Hagrid slamming a thick finger into a green button near the fuel 
gauge. A wall, a solid black wall, erupted out of the exhaust pipe. Craning his neck, 
Harry saw it expand into being in midair. Three of the Death Eaters swerved and avoided 
it, but the fourth was not so lucky; He vanished from view and then dropped like a 
boulder from behind it, his broomstick broken into pieces. One of his fellows slowed up 
to save him, but they and the airborne wall were swallowed by darkness as Hagrid leaned 
low over the handlebars and sped up.

     More Killing Curses flew past Harry's head from the two remaining Death 
Eaters' wands; they were aiming for Hagrid. Harry responded with further 
Stunning Spells: Red and green collided in midair in a shower of multicolored 
sparks, and Harry thought wildly of fireworks, and the Muggles below who would 
have no idea what was happening -

     "Here we go again, Harry, hold on!" yelled Hagrid, and he jabbed at a 
second button. This time a great net burst from the bike's exhaust, but the Death Eaters 
were ready for it. Not only did they swerve to avoid it, but the companion who had slowed 
to save their unconscious friend had caught up. He bloomed suddenly out of the darkness 
and now three of them were pursuing the motorbike, all shooting curses after it.

     "This'll do it, Harry, hold on tight!" yelled Hagrid, and Harry saw him 
slam his whole hand onto the purple button beside the speedometer.

     With an unmistakable bellowing roar, dragon fire burst from the exhaust, 
white-hot and blue, and the motorbike shot forward like a bullet with a sound 
of wrenching metal. Harry saw the Death Eaters swerve out of sight to avoid the 
deadly trail of flame,

and at the same time felt the sidecar sway ominously: Its metal connections to 
the bike had splintered with the force of acceleration.

     "It's all righ', Harry!" bellowed Hagrid, now thrown flat onto the back by 
the surge of speed; nobody was steering now, and the sidecar was starting to twist 
violently in the bike's slipstream.

     "I'm on it, Harry, don' worry!" Hagrid yelled, and from inside his jacket 
pocket he pulled his flowery pink umbrella.

"Hagrid! No! Let me!"


     There was a deafening bang and the sidecar broke away from the bike 
completely. Harry sped forward, propelled by the impetus of the bike's flight, 
then the sidecar began to lose height -

     In desperation Harry pointed his wand at the sidecar and shouted, "Wingardium 

     The sidecar rose like a cork, unsteerable but at least still airborne. He 
had but a split second's relief, however, as more curses streaked past him: The 
three Death Eaters were closing in.

     "I'm comin', Harry!" Hagrid yelled from out of the darkness, but Harry could feel 
the sidecar beginning to sink again: Crouching as low as he could, he pointed at the middle of the 
oncoming figures and yelled, "Impedimenta!"

     The jinx hit the middle Death Eater in the chest; For a moment the man was 
absurdly spread-eagled in midair as though he had hit an invisible barrier: One 
of his fellows almost collided with him -

     Then the sidecar began to fall in earnest, and the remaining Death Eater 
shot a curse so close to Harry that he had to duck below the rim of the car, 
knocking out a tooth on the edge of his seat -

"I'm comin', Harry, I'm comin'!"

     A huge hand seized the back of Harry's robes and hoisted him out of the plummeting 
sidecar; Harry pulled his rucksack with him as he dragged himself onto the motorbike's 
seat and found himself back-to-back with Hagrid. As they soared upward, away from the two 
remaining Death Eaters, Harry spat blood out of his mouth, pointed his wand at the 
falling sidecar, and yelled, "Confringo!"

     He knew a dreadful, gut-wrenching pang for Hedwig as it exploded; the 
Death Eater nearest it was blasted off his broom and fell from sight; his 
companion fell back and vanished.

     "Harry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," moaned Hagrid, "I shouldn'ta tried ter repair it 
meself - yeh've got no room -"

     "It's not a problem, just keep flying!" Harry shouted back, as two more 
Death Eaters emerged out of the darkness, drawing closer.

     As the curses came shooting across the intervening space again, Hagrid 
swerved and zigzagged: Harry knew that Hagrid did not dare use the dragon-fire 
button again, with Harry seated so insecurely. Harry sent Stunning Spell after 
Stunning Spell back at their pursuers, barely holding them off. He shot another 
blocking jinx at them: The closest Death Eater swerved to avoid it and his hood 
slipped, and by the red light of his next Stunning Spell, Harry saw the 
strangely blank face of Stanley Shunpike - Stan -

"Expelliarmus!" Harry yelled.

"That's him, it's him, it's the real one!"

     The hooded Death Eater's shout reached Harry even above the thunder of the 
motorbike's engine: Next moment, both pursuers had fallen back and disappeared 
from view.

"Harry, what's happened?" bellowed Hagrid. "Where've they gone?"

"I don't know!"

     But Harry was afraid: The hooded Death Eater had shouted, "It's the real 
one!"; how had he known? He gazed around at the apparently empty darkness and felt 
its menace. Where were they?

     He clambered around on the seat to face forward and seized hold of the 
back of Hagrid's jacket.

"Hagrid, do the dragon-fire thing again, let's get out of here!"

"Hold on tight, then, Harry!"

     There was a deafening, screeching roar again and the white-blue fire shot from the 
exhaust: Harry felt himself slipping backwards off what little of the seat he had. Hagrid 
flung backward upon him, barely maintaining his grip on the handlebars -"I think 
we've lost 'em Harry, I think we've done it!" yelled Hagrid.

     But Harry was not convinced; Fear lapped at him as he looked left and 
right for pursuers he was sure would come. . . . Why had they fallen back? One 
of them had still had a wand. . . . It's him. . . it's the real one. . . . They 
had said it right after he had tried to Disarm Stan. . . .

"We're nearly there, Harry, we've nearly made it!" shouted Hagrid.

     Harry felt the bike drop a little, though the lights down on the ground 
still seemed remote as stars.

     Then the scar on his forehead burned like fire: as a Death Eater appeared 
on either side of the bike, two Killing Curses missed Harry by millimeters, 
cast from behind -

     And then Harry saw him. Voldemort was flying like smoke on the wind, 
without broomstick or thestral to hold him, his snake-like face gleaming out of 
the blackness, his white fingers raising his wand again -

     Hagrid let out a bellow of fear and steered the motorbike into a vertical 
dive. Clinging on for dear life, Harry sent Stunning Spells flying at random 
into the whirling night. He saw a body fly past him and knew he had hit one of 
them, but then he heard a bang and saw sparks from the engine; the motorbike 
spiraled through the air, completely out of control -

     Green jets of light shot past them again. Harry had no idea which way was 
up, which down: His scar was still burning; he expected to die at any second. A 
hooded figure on a broomstick was feet from him, he saw it raise its arm -


     With a shout of fury Hagrid launched himself off the bike at the Death 
Eater; to his horror, Harry saw both Hagrid and the Death Eater, falling out of 
sight, their combined weight too much for the broomstick -

     Barely gripping the plummeting bike with his knees, Harry heard Voldemort scream, 

     It was over: He could not see or hear where Voldemort was; he glimpsed another Death 
Eater swooping out of the way and heard, "Avada -"

     As the pain from Harry's scar forced his eyes shut, his wand acted of its own 
accord. He felt it drag his hand around like some great magnet, saw a spurt of golden 
fire through his half-closed eyelids, heard a crack and a scream of fury. The remaining 
Death Eater yelled; Voldemort screamed, "NO!" Somehow, Harry found his nose an 
inch from the dragon-fire button. He punched it with his wand-free hand and the bike shot 
more flames into the air, hurtling straight toward the ground.

     "Hagrid!" Harry called, holding on to the bike for dear life. "Hagrid - Accio 

     The motorbike sped up, sucked towards the earth. Face level with the handlebars, 
Harry could see nothing but distant lights growing nearer and nearer: He was going to 
crash and there was nothing he could do about it. Behind him came another scream, 
"Your wand, Selwyn, give me your wand!"

     He felt Voldemort before he saw him. Looking sideways, he stared into the 
red eyes and was sure they would be the last thing he ever saw: Voldemort 
preparing to curse him once more -

     And then Voldemort vanished. Harry looked down and saw Hagrid 
spread-eagled on the ground below him. He pulled hard at the handlebars to 
avoid hitting him, groped for the brake, but with an earsplitting, ground 
trembling crash, he smashed into a muddy pond.

Chapter Five Fallen Warrior


     Harry struggled to raise himself out of the debris of metal and leather 
that surrounded him; his hands sank into inches of muddy water as he tried to 
stand. He could not understand where Voldemort had gone and expected him to 
swoop out of the darkness at any moment. Something hot and wet was trickling 
down his chin and from his forehead. He crawled out of the pond and stumbled 
toward the great dark mass on the ground that was Hagrid.

"Hagrid? Hagrid, talk to me -"

But the dark mass did not stir.

"Who's there? Is it Potter? Are you Harry Potter?"

     Harry did not recognize the man's voice. Then a woman shouted. "They've 
crashed. Ted! Crashed in the garden!"

Harry's head was swimming.

"Hagrid," he repeated stupidly, and his knees buckled.

     The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back on what felt like 
cushions, with a burning sensation in his ribs and right arm. His missing tooth 
had been regrown. The scar on his forehead was still throbbing.


     He opened his eyes and saw that he was lying on a sofa in an unfamiliar, 
lamplit sitting room. His rucksack lay on the floor a short distance away, wet 
and muddy. A fair-haired, big-bellied man was watching Harry anxiously.

     "Hagrid's fine, son," said the man, "the wife's seeing to him now. How are you 
feeling? Anything else broken? I've fixed your ribs, your tooth, and your arm. I'm Ted, by the way, 
Ted Tonks - Dora's father."

     Harry sat up too quickly. Lights popped in front of his eyes and he felt 
sick and giddy.

" Voldemort -"

     "Easy, now," said Ted Tonks, placing a hand on Harry's shoulder and pushing him back 
against the cushions. "That was a nasty crash you just had. What happened, anyway? Something 
go wrong with the bike? Arthur Weasley overstretch himself again, him and his Muggle 

     "No," said Harry, as his scar pulsed like an open wound. "Death Eaters, loads 
of them - we were chased -"

     "Death Eaters?" said Ted sharply. "What d'you mean, Death Eaters? I thought 
they didn't know you were being moved tonight, I thought -"

"They knew," said Harry.

     Ted Tonks looked up at the ceiling as though he could see through it to 
the sky above.

     "Well, we know our protective charms hold, then, don't we? They shouldn't be 
able to get within a hundred yards of the place in any direction."

     Now Harry understood why Voldemort had vanished; it had been at the point 
when the motorbike crossed the barrier of the Order's charms. He only hoped 
they would continue to work: He imagined Voldemort, a hundred yards above them 
as they spoke, looking for a way to penetrate what Harry visualized as a great 
transparent bubble.

     He swung his legs off the sofa; he needed to see Hagrid with his own eyes 
before he would believe that he was alive. He had barely stood up, however, 
when a door opened and Hagrid squeezed through it, his face covered in mud and 
blood, limping a little but miraculously alive.


     Knocking over two delicate tables and an aspidistra, he covered the floor between 
them in two strides and pulled Harry into a hug that nearly cracked his newly repaired 
ribs. "Blimey, Harry, how did yeh get out o' that? I thought we were both 

"Yeah, me too. I can't believe -"

     Harry broke off. He had just noticed the woman who had entered the room 
behind Hagrid.

"You!" he shouted, and he thrust his hand into his pocket, but it was empty.

     "Your wand's here, son," said Ted, tapping it on Harry's arm. "It fell right 
beside you, I picked it up.. .And that's my wife you're shouting at."

"Oh, I'm-I'm sorry."

     As she moved forward into the room, Mrs. Tonks's resemblance to her sister 
Bellatrix became much less pronounced: Her hair was a light's oft brown and her 
eyes were wider and kinder. Nevertheless, she looked a little haughty after 
Harry's exclamation.

     "What happened to our daughter?" she asked. "Hagrid said you were ambushed; 
where is Nymphadora?"

"I don't know," said Harry. "We don't know what happened to anyone else."

     She and Ted exchanged looks. A mixture of fear and guilt gripped Harry at 
the sight of their expressions, if any of the others had died, it was his 
fault, all his fault. He had consented to the plan, given them his hair . . .

     "The Portkey," he said, remembering all of a sudden. "We've got to get back to 
the Burrow and find out - then we'll be able to send you word, or - or Tonks will, once she's 

     "Dora'll be ok, 'Dromeda," said Ted. "She knows her stuff, she's been in plenty of tight 
spots with the Aurors. The Portkey's through here," he added to Harry. "It's supposed to leave in 
three minutes, if you want to take it."

"Yeah, we do," said Harry. He seized his rucksack, swung it onto his shoulders. 


     He looked at Mrs. Tonks, wanting to apologize for the state of fear in 
which he left her and for which he felt so terribly responsible, but no words 
occurred to him that he did not seem hollow and insincere.

     "I'll tell Tonks - Dora - to send word, when she . . . Thanks for patching us 
up, thanks for everything, I -"

     He was glad to leave the room and follow Ted Tonks along a short hallway 
and into a bedroom. Hagrid came after them, bending low to avoid hitting his 
head on the door lintel.

"There you go, son. That's the Portkey."

     Mr. Tonks was pointing to a small, silver-backed hairbrush lying on the 
dressing table.

"Thanks," said Harry, reaching out to place a finger on it, ready to leave.

"Wait a moment," said Hagrid, looking around. "Harry, where's Hedwig?"

"She . . . she got hit," said Harry.

     The realization crashed over him: He felt ashamed of himself as the tears 
stung his eyes. The owl had been his companion, his one great link with the 
magical world whenever he had been forced to return to the Dursleys.

Hagrid reached out a great hand and patted him painfully on the shoulder.

"Never mind," he said gruffly, "Never mind. She had a great old life -"

     "Hagrid!" said Ted Tonks warningly, as the hairbrush glowed bright blue, 
and Hagrid only just got his forefinger to it in time.

     With a jerk behind the navel as though an invisible hook and line had 
dragged him forward, Harry was pulled into nothingness, spinning 
uncontrollably, his finger glued to the Portkey as he and Hagrid hurtled away 
from Mr. Tonks. Second later, Harry's feet slammed onto hard ground and he fell 
onto his hands and knees in the yard of the Burrow. He heard screams. Throwing 
aside the no longer glowing hairbrush, Harry stood up, swaying slightly, and 
saw Mrs. Weasley and Ginny running down the steps by the back door as Hagrid, 
who had also collapsed on landing, clambered laboriously to his feet.

     "Harry? You are the real Harry? What happened? Where are the others?" 
cried Mrs. Weasley.

"What d'you mean? Isn't anyone else back?" Harry panted.

The answer was clearly etched in Mrs. Weasley's pale face.

     "The Death Eaters were waiting for us," Harry told her, "We were 
surrounded the moment we took off- they knew it was tonight - I don't know what happened to 

else, four of them chased us, it was all we could do to get away, and then Voldemort 
caught up with us -"

     He could hear the self-justifying note in his voice, the plea for her to 
understand why he did not know what had happened to her sons, but -

     "Thank goodness you're all right," she said, pulling him into a hug he did 
not feel he deserved.

     "Haven't go' any brandy, have yeh, Molly?" asked Hagrid a little shakily, "Fer 
medicinal purposes?"

     She could have summoned it by magic, but as she hurried back toward the 
crooked house, Harry knew that she wanted to hide her face. He turned to Ginny 
and she answered his unspoken plea for information at once.

     "Ron and Tonks should have been back first, but they missed their Portkey, it came back without them," 
she said, pointing at a rusty oil can lying on the ground nearby. "And that one," she pointed at an ancient 
sneaker, "should have been Dad and Fred's, they were supposed to be second. You and Hagrid were third and," 
she checked her watch, "if they made it, George and Lupin aught to be back in about a minute."

     Mrs. Weasley reappeared carrying a bottle of brandy, which she handed to 
Hagrid. He uncorked it and drank it straight down in one.

"Mum!" shouted Ginny pointing to a spot several feet away.

     A blue light had appeared in the darkness: It grew larger and brighter, 
and Lupin and George appeared, spinning and then falling. Harry knew 
immediately that there was something wrong: Lupin was supporting George, who 
was unconscious and whose face was covered in blood.

     Harry ran forward and seized George's legs. Together, he and Lupin carried 
George into the house and through the kitchen to the living room, where they 
laid him on the sofa. As the lamplight fell across George's head, Ginny gasped 
and Harry's stomach lurched: One of George's ears was missing. The side of his 
head and neck were drenched in wet, shockingly scarlet blood.

     No sooner had Mrs. Weasley bent over her son that Lupin grabbed Harry by 
the upper arm and dragged him, none too gently, back into the kitchen, where 
Hagrid was still attempting to ease his bulk through the back door.

"Oi!" said Hagrid indignantly, "Le' go of him! Le' go of Harry!"

Lupin ignored him.

     "What creature sat in the corner the first time that Harry Potter visited my office at 
Hogwarts?" he said, giving Harry a small shake. "Answer me!"

"A - a grindylow in a tank, wasn't it?"

Lupin released Harry and fell back against a kitchen cupboard.

"Wha' was tha' about?" roared Hagrid.

     "I'm sorry, Harry, but I had to check," said Lupin tersely. "We've been 
betrayed. Voldemort knew that you were being moved tonight and the only people who could have told 
him were directly involved in the plan. You might have been an impostor."

"So why aren' you checkin' me?" panted Hagrid, still struggling with the door.

     "You're half-giant," said Lupin, looking up at Hagrid. "The Polyjuice Potion is 
designed for human use only."

     "None of the Order would have told Voldemort we were moving tonight," said 
Harry. The idea was dreadful to him, he could not believe it of any of them. "Voldemort

only caught up with me toward the end, he didn't know which one I was in the 
beginning. If he'd been in on the plan he'd have known from the start I was the one 
with Hagrid."

     "Voldemort caught up with you?" said Lupin sharply. "What happened? How did you 

     Harry explained how the Death Eaters pursuing them had seemed to recognize 
him as the true Harry, how they had abandoned the chase, how they must have 
summoned Voldemort, who had appeared just before he and Hagrid had reached the 
sanctuary of Tonks's parents.

"They recognized you? But how? What had you done?"

     "I..." Harry tried to remember; the whole journey seemed like a blur of panic and 
confusion. "I saw Stan Shunpike .... You know, the bloke who was the conductor on the Knight 
Bus? And I tried to Disarm him instead of- well, he doesn't know what he's doing, does he? He must 
be Imperiused!"

Lupin looked aghast.

     "Harry, the time for Disarming is past! These people are trying to capture and 
kill you! At least Stun if you aren't prepared to kill!"

     "We were hundreds of feet up! Stan's not himself, and if I Stunned him and he'd 
fallen, he'd have died the same as if I'd used Avada Kedavra! Expelliarmus saved me from 
Voldemort two years ago," Harry added defiantly. Lupin was reminding him of the 
sneering Hufflepuff Zacharias Smith, who had jeered at Harry for wanting to teach 
Dumbledore's Army how to Disarm.

     "Yes, Harry," said Lupin with painful restraint, "and a great number of Death 
Eaters witnessed that happening! Forgive me, but it was a very unusual move then, under the 
imminent threat of death. Repeating it tonight in front of Death Eaters who either witnessed or 
heard about the first occasion was close to suicidal!"

"So you think I should have killed Stan Shunpike?" said Harry angrily.

     "Of course not," said Lupin, "but the Death Eaters - frankly, most people! 
-would have expected you to attack back! Expelliarmus is a useful spell, Harry, but the Death 
Eaters seem to think it is your signature move, and I urge you not to let it become so!"

     Lupin was making Harry feel idiotic, and yet there was still a grain of 
defiance inside him.

     "I won't blast people out of my way just because they're there," said Harry, 
"That's Voldemort'sjob."

     Lupin's retort was lost: Finally succeeding in squeezing through the door, 
Hagrid staggered to a chair and sat down; it collapsed beneath him. Ignoring 
his mingled oaths and apologies, Harry addressed Lupin again.

"Will George be okay?"

All Lupin's frustration with Harry seemed to drain away at the question.

     "I think so, although there's no chance of replacing his ear, not when it's 
been cursed off-"

     There was a scuffling from outside. Lupin dived for the back door; Harry 
leapt over Hagrid's legs and sprinted into the yard.

     Two figures had appeared in the yard, and as Harry ran toward them he 
realized they were Hermione, now returning to her normal appearance, and 
Kingsley, both clutching a bent coat hanger, Hermione flung herself into 
Harry's arms, but Kingsley

showed no pleasure at the sight of any of them. Over Hermione's shoulder Harry 
saw him raise his wand and point it at Lupin's chest.

"The last words Albus Dumbledore spoke to the pair of us!"

'"Harry is the best hope we have. Trust him,'" said Lupin calmly.

Kingsley turned his wand on Harry, but Lupin said, "It's him, I've checked!"

     "All right, all right!" said Kingsley, stowing his wand back beneath his cloak, 
"But somebody betrayed us! They knew, they knew it was tonight!"

     "So it seems," replied Lupin, "but apparently they did not realize that there 
would be seven Harrys."

"Small comfort!" snarled Kingsley. "Who else is back?"

"Only Harry, Hagrid, George, and me."

Hermione stifled a little moan behind her hand.

"What happened to you?" Lupin asked Kingsley.

     "Followed by five, injured two, might've killed one," Kingsley reeled off, "and 
we saw You-Know-Who as well, he joined the chase halfway through but vanished pretty quickly. 
Remus, he can -"

"Fly," supplied Harry. "I saw him too, he came after Hagrid and me."

     "So that's why he left, to follow you!" said Kingsley, "I couldn't understand 
why he'd vanished. But what made him change targets?"

"Harry behaved a little too kindly to Stan Shunpike," said Lupin.

"Stan?" repeated Hermione. "But I thought he was in Azkaban?"

Kingsley let out a mirthless laugh.

     "Hermione, there's obviously been a mass breakout which the Ministry has hushed 
up. Travers's hood fell off when I cursed him, he's supposed to be inside too. But what 
happened to you, Remus? Where's George?"

"He lost an ear," said Lupin.

"lost an ? ?" repeated Hermione in a high voice.

"Snape's work," said Lupin.

"Snape?" shouted Harry. "You didn't say -"

     "He lost his hood during the chase. Sectumsempra was always a specialty of 
Snape's. I wish I could say I'd paid him back in kind, but it was all I could do to keep 
George on the broom after he was injured, he was losing so much blood."

     Silence fell between the four of them as they looked up at the sky. There 
was no sign of movement; the stars stared back, unblinking, indifferent, 
unobscured by flying friends. Where was Ron? Where were Fred and Mr. Weasley? 
Where were Bill, Fleur, Tonks, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus?

     "Harry, give us a hand!" called Hagrid hoarsely from the door, in which he 
was stuck again. Glad of something to do, Harry pulled him free, the headed through the 
empty kitchen and back into the sitting room, where Mrs. Weasley and Ginny were still 
tending to George. Mrs. Weasley had staunched his bleeding now, and by the lamplight 
Harry saw a clean gaping hole where George's ear had been.

"How is he?"

     Mrs. Weasley looked around and said, "I can't make it grow back, not when it's 
been removed by Dark Magic. But it could've been so much worse .... He's alive."

"Yeah," said Harry. "Thank God."

"Did I hear someone else in the yard?" Ginny asked.

"Hermione and Kingsley," said Harry.

     "Thank goodness," Ginny whispered. They looked at each other; Harry wanted 
to hug her, hold on to her; he did not even care much that Mrs. Weasley was there, but 
before he could act on the impulse, there was a great crash from the kitchen.

     "I'll prove who I am, Kingsley, after I've seen my son, now back off if you 
know what's good for you!"

     Harry had never heard Mr. Weasley shout like that before. He burst into 
the living room, his bald patch gleaming with sweat, his spectacles askew, Fred 
right behind him, both pale but uninjured.

"Arthur!" sobbed Mrs. Weasley. "Oh thank goodness!"

"How is he?"

     Mr. Weasley dropped to his knees beside George. For the first time since 
Harry had known him, Fred seemed to be lost for words. He gaped over the back 
of the sofa at his twin's wound as if he could not believe what he was seeing.

Perhaps roused by the sound of Fred and their father's arrival, George stirred.

"How do you feel, Georgie?" whispered Mrs. Weasley.

George's fingers groped for the side of his head.

"Saintlike," he murmured.

"What's wrong with him?" croaked Fred, looking terrified. "Is his mind 

     "Saintlike," repeated George, opening his eyes and looking up at his brother. 
"You see. . . I'm holy. Holey, Fred, geddit?"

Mrs. Weasley sobbed harder than ever. Color flooded Fred's pale face.

     "Pathetic," he told George. "Pathetic! With the whole wide world of ear-related 
humor before you, you go for holey?"

     "Ah well," said George, grinning at his tear-soaked mother. "You'll be able to 
tell us apart now, anyway, Mum."

He looked around.

"Hi, Harry - you are Harry, right?"

"Yeah, I am," said Harry, moving closer to the sofa.

     "Well, at least we got you back okay," said George. "Why aren't Ron and Bill 
huddled round my sickbed?"

     "They're not back yet, George," said Mrs. Weasley. George's grin faded. 
Harry glanced at Ginny and motioned to her to accompany him back outside. As they walked 
through the kitchen she said in a low voice.

     "Ron and Tonks should be back by now. They didn't have a long journey; Auntie 
Muriel's not that far from here."

     Harry said nothing. He had been trying to keep fear at bay ever since 
reaching the Burrow, but now it enveloped him, seeming to crawl over his skin, 
throbbing in his chest, clogging his throat. As they walked down the back steps 
into the dark yard, Ginny took his hand.

     Kingsley was striding backward and forward, glancing up at the sky every 
time he turned. Harry was reminded of Uncle Vernon pacing the living room a 
million years ago. Hagrid, Hermione, and Lupin stood shoulder to shoulder, 
gazing upward in silence. None of them looked around when Harry and Ginny 
joined their silent vigil.

     The minutes stretched into what might as well have been years. The 
slightest breath of wind made them all jump and turn toward the whispering bush 
or tree in the hope that one of the missing Order members might leap unscathed 
from its leaves -

     And then a broom materialized directly above them and streaked toward the 
ground -

"It's them!" screamedHermione.

Tonks landed in a long skid that sent earth and pebbles everywhere.

     "Remus!" Tonks cried as she staggered off the broom into Lupin's arms. His 
face was set and white: He seemed unable to speak, Ron tripped dazedly toward Harry and 

"You're okay," he mumbled, before Hermione flew at him and hugged him tightly.

"I thought -1 thought -"

'"M all right," said Ron, patting her on the back. '"M fine."

     "Ron was great," said Tonks warmly, relinquishing her hold on Lupin. 
"Wonderful. Stunned one of the Death Eaters, straight to the head, and when you're aiming at a 
moving target from a flying broom -"

"You did?" said Hermione, gazing up at Ron with her arms still around his neck.

     "Always the tone of surprise," he said a little grumpily, breaking free. "Are 
we the last back?"

     "No," said Ginny, "we're still waiting for Bill and Fleur and Mad-Eye and 
Mundungus. I'm going to tell Mum and Dad you're okay, Ron -"

She ran back inside.

"So what kept you? What happened?" Lupin sounded almost angry at Tonks.

     "Bellatrix," said Tonks. "She wants me quite as much as she wants Harry, Remus, 
She tried very hard to kill me. I just wish I'd got her, I owe Bellatrix. But we definitely injured 
Rodolphus .... Then we got to Ron's Auntie Muriel's and we missed our Portkey and she was fussing 
over us -"

     A muscle was jumping in Lupin's jaw. He nodded, but seemed unable to say 
anything else.

     "So what happened to you lot?" Tonks asked, turning to Harry, Hermione, 
and Kingsley.

     They recounted the stories of their own journeys, but all the time the 
continued absence of Bill, Fleur, Mad-Eye, and Mundungus seemed to lie upon 
them like a frost, its icy bite harder and harder to ignore.

     "I'm going to have to get back to Downing Street, I should have been there an hour 
ago," said Kingsley finally, after a last sweeping gaze at the sky. "Let me know when 
they're back,."

     Lupin nodded. With a wave to the others, Kingsley walked away into the 
darkness toward the gate. Harry thought he heard the faintest pop as Kingsley 
Disapparatedjust beyond the Burrow's boundaries.

     Mr. And Mrs. Weasley came racing down the back steps, Ginny behind them. 
Both parents hugged Ron before turning to Lupin and Tonks.

"Thank you," said Mrs. Weasley, "for our sons."

"Don't be silly, Molly," said Tonks at once.

"How's George?" asked Lupin.

"What's wrong with him?" piped up Ron.

"He's lost-"

     But the end of Mrs. Weasley's sentence was drowned in a general outcry. A 
thestral had just soared into sight and landed a few feet from them. Bill and 
Fleur slid from its back, windswept but unhurt.

"Bill! Thank God, thank God -"

     Mrs. Weasley ran forward, but the hug Bill bestowed upon her was perfunctory. 
Looking directly at his father, he said, "Mad-Eye's dead."

     Nobody spoke, nobody moved. Harry felt as though something inside him was 
falling, falling through the earth, leaving him forever.

     "We saw it," said Bill; Fleur nodded, tear tracks glittering on her cheeks in the 
light from the kitchen window. "It happened just after we broke out of the circle: Mad-Eye and 
Dung were close by us, they were heading north too. Voldemort - he can fly -went straight for them. 
Dung panicked, I heard him cry out, Mad-Eye tried to stop him, but he Disapparated. Voldemort's 
curse hit Mad-Eye full in the face, he fell backward off his broom and - there was nothing we could 
do, nothing, we had half a dozen of them on our own tail -"

Bill's voice broke.

"Of course you couldn't have done anything," said Lupin.

     They all stood looking at each other. Harry could not quite comprehend it. 
Mad-Eye dead; it could not be ... . Mad-Eye, so tough, so brave, the consummate 
survivor . . .

     At last it seemed to dawn on everyone, though nobody said it, that there 
was no point of waiting in the yard anymore, and in silence they followed Mr. 
And Mrs. Weasley back into the Burrow, and into the living room, where Fred and 
George were laughing together.

     "What's wrong?" said Fred, scanning their faces as they entered, "What's 
happened? Who's --?"

"Mad-Eye," said Mr. Weasley, "Dead."

     The twins' grins turned to grimaces of shock. Nobody seemed to know what 
to do. Tonks was crying silently into a handkerchief: She had been close to 
Mad-Eye, Harry knew, his favorite and his protegee at the Ministry of Magic. 
Hagrid, who had sat down on the floor in the corner where he had most space, 
was dabbing at his eyes with his tablecloth-sized handkerchief.

     Bill walked over to the sideboard and pulled out a bottle of fire-whisky 
and some glasses.

     "Here," he said, and with a wave of his wand, eh sent twelve full glasses soaring 
through the room to each of them, holding the thirteenth aloft. "Mad-Eye."

"Mad-Eye," they all said, and drank.

     "Mad-Eye," echoed Hagrid, a little late, with a hiccup. The firewhisky 
seared Harry's throat. It seemed to burn feeling back into him, dispelling the numbness 
and sense of unreality firing him with something that was like courage.

"So Mundungus disappeared?" said Lupin, who had drained his own glass in one.

     The atmosphere changed at once. Everybody looked tense, watching Lupin, 
both wanting him to go on, it seemed to Harry, and slightly afraid of what they 
might hear.

     "I know what you're thinking," said Bill, "and I wondered that too, on the 
way back here, because they seemed to be expecting us, didn't they? But Mundungus can't have 
betrayed us. They didn't know there would be seven Harrys, that confused them the

moment we appeared, and in case you've forgotten, it was Mundungus who suggested 
that little bit of skullduggery. Why wouldn't he have told them the essential point? 
I think Dung panicked, it's as simple as that. He didn't want to come in the first 
place, but Mad-Eye made him, and You-Know-Who went straight for them. It was enough 
to make anyone panic."

     "You-Know-Who acted exactly as Mad-Eye expected him to," sniffed Tonks. 
"Mad-Eye said he'd expect the real Harry to be with the toughest, most skilled Aurors. He 
chased Mad-Eye first, and when Mundungus gave them away he switched to Kingsley. ..."

     "Yes, and zat eez all very good," snapped Fleur, "but still eet does not 
explain 'ow zey know we were moving 'Any tonight, does eet? Somebody must 'ave been careless. 
Somebody let slip ze date to an outsider. It is ze only explanation for zem knowing ze date but not 
ze 'ole plan."

     She glared around at them all, tear tracks still etched on her beautiful 
face, silently daring any of them to contradict her. Nobody did. The only sound 
to break the silence was that of Hagrid hiccupping from behind his 
handkerchief. Harry glanced at Hagrid, who had just risked his own life to save 
Harry's - Hagrid, whom he loved, whom he trusted, who had once been tricked 
into giving Voldemort crucial information in exchange for a dragon's egg. . . .

     "No," Harry said aloud, and they all looked at him, surprised: The firewhisky seemed to have amplified 
his voice. "I mean . . . if somebody made a mistake," Harry went on, "and let something slip, I know 
they didn't mean to do it. It's not their fault," he repeated, again a little louder than he would usually have 
spoken. "We've got to trust each other. I trust all of you, I don't think anyone in this room would ever sell me 
to Voldemort."

     More silence followed his words. They were all looking at him; Harry felt 
a little hot again, and drank some more firewhisky for something to do. As he 
drank, he thought of Mad-Eye. Mad-Eye had always been scathing about 
Dumbledore's willingness to trust people.

"Well said, Harry," said Fred unexpectedly.

     "Year, 'ear, 'ear," said George, with half a glance at Fred, the corner of 
whose mouth twitched.

     Lupin was wearing an odd expression as he looked at Harry. It was close to 

"You think I'm a fool?" demanded Harry.

     "No, I think you're like James," said Lupin, "who would have regarded it as the 
height of dishonor to mistrust his friends."

     Harry knew what Lupin was getting at: that his father had been betrayed by his 
friend Peter Pettigrew. He felt irrationally angry. He wanted to argue, but Lupin had 
turned away from him, set down his glass upon a side table, and addressed Bill, 
"There's work to do. I can ask Kingsley whether -"

"No," said Bill at once, "I'll do it, I'll come."

"Where are you going?" said Tonks and Fleur together.

"Mad-Eye's body," said Lupin. "We need to recover it."

"Can't it ? ?" began Mrs. Weasley with an appealing look at Bill.

"Wait?" said Bill, "Not unless you'd rather the Death Eaters took it?"

Nobody spoke. Lupin and Bill said good bye and left.

     The rest of them now dropped into chairs, all except for Harry, who 
remained standing. The suddenness and completeness of death was with them like 
a presence.

"I've got to go too," said Harry.

Ten pairs of startled eyes looked at him.

"Don't be silly, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, "What are you talking about?"

"I can't stay here."

     He rubbed his forehead; it was prickling again, he had not hurt like this 
for more than a year.

"You're all in danger while I'm here. I don't want -"

     "But don't be so silly!" said Mrs. Weasley. "The whole point of tonight was to 
get you here safely, and thank goodness it worked. And Fleur's agreed to get married here rather 
than in France, we've arranged everything so that we can all stay together and look after you 

She did not understand; she was making him feel worse, not better.

"If Voldemort finds out I'm here -"

"But why should he?" asked Mrs. Weasley.

     "There are a dozen places you might be now, Harry," said Mr. Weasley. "He's got 
no way of knowing which safe house you're in."

"It's not me I'm worried for!" said Harry.

     "We know that," said Mr. Weasley quietly, but it would make our efforts tonight 
seem rather pointless if you left."

     "Yer not goin' anywhere," growled Hagrid. "Blimey, Harry, after all we wen' 
through ter get you here?"

     "Yeah, what about my bleeding ear?" said George, hoisting himself up on 
his cushions.

"I know that -"

"Mad-Eye wouldn't want -"

"I KNOW!" Harry bellowed.

     He felt beleaguered and blackmailed: Did they think he did not know what 
they had done for him, didn't they understand that it was for precisely that 
reason that he wanted to go now, before they had to suffer any more on his 
behalf? There was a long and awkward silence in which his scar continued to 
prickle and throb, and which was broken at last by Mrs. Weasley.

     "Where's Hedwig, Harry?" she said coaxingly. "We can put her up with Pidwidgeon 
and give her something to eat."

     His insides clenched like a fist. He could not tell her the truth. He 
drank the last of his firewhisky to avoid answering.

     "Wait till it gets out yeh did it again, Harry," said Hagrid. "Escaped him, 
fought him off when he was right on top of yeh!"

     "It wasn't me," said Harry flatly. "It was my wand. My wand acted of its own 

     After a few moments, Hermione said gently, "But that's impossible, Harry. You 
mean that you did magic without meaning to; you reacted instinctively."

     "No," said Harry. "The bike was falling, I couldn't have told you where 
Voldemort was, but my wand spun in my hand and found him and shot a spell at him, and it wasn't 
even a spell I recognized. I've never made gold flames appear before."

     "Often," said Mr. Weasley, "when you're in a pressured situation you can 
produce magic you never dreamed of. Small children often find, before they're trained -"

     "It wasn't like that," said Harry through gritted teeth. His scar was 
burning. He felt angry and frustrated; he hated the idea that they were all imagining him 
to have power to match Voldemort's.

     No one said anything. He knew that they did not believe him. Now that he 
came to think of it, he had never heard of a wand performing magic on its own 

     His scar seared with pain, it was all he could do not to moan aloud. 
Muttering about fresh air, he set down his glass and left the room.

     As he crossed the yard, the great skeletal thestral looked up - rustled 
its enormous batlike wings, then resumed its grazing. Harry stopped at the gate 
into the garden, staring out at its overgrown plants, rubbing his pounding 
forehead and thinking of Dumbledore.

     Dumbledore would have believed him, he knew it. Dumbledore would have 
known how and why Harry's wand had acted independently, because Dumbledore 
always had the answers; he had known about wands, had explained to Harry the 
strange connection that existed between his wand and Voldemort's .... But 
Dumbledore, like Mad-Eye, like Sirius, like his parents, like his poor owl, all 
were gone where Harry could never talk to them again. He felt a burning in his 
throat that had nothing to do with firewhisky. . . .

     And then, out of nowhere, the pain in his scar peaked. As he clutched his 
forehead and closed his eyes, a voice screamed inside his head.

" You told me the problem would be solved by using another's wand!"

     And into his mind burst the vision of an emaciated old man lying in rags 
upon a stone floor, screaming, a horrible drawn-out scream, a scream of 
unendurable agony. . . .

"No! No! I beg you, I beg you. ..."

"You lied to Lord Voldemort, Ollivander!"

"I did not. ... I swear I did not. ..."

"You sought to help Potter, to help him escape me!"

"I swear I did not. ... I believed a different wand would work. ..."

"Explain, then, what happened. Lucius's wand is destroyed!"

     "I cannot understand. . . . The connection . . . exists only . . between your 
two wands. ..."


"Please . . . I beg you. ..."

     And Harry saw the white hand raise its wand and felt Voldemort's surge of 
vicious anger, saw the frail old main on the floor writhe in agony -


     It was over as quickly as it had come: Harry stood shaking in the 
darkness, clutching the gate into the garden, his heart racing, his scar still 
tingling. It was several moments before he realized that Ron and Hermione were 
at his side.

     "Harry, come back in the house," Hermione whispered, "You aren't still thinking 
of leaving?"

"Yeah, you've got to stay, mate," said Ron, thumping Harry on the back.

     "Are you all right?" Hermione asked, close enough now to look into Harry's face. 
"You look awful!"

"Well," said Harry shakily, "I probably look better than Ollivander. ..."

     When he had finished telling them what he had seen, Ron looked appalled, 
but Hermione downright terrified.

     "But it was supposed to have stopped! Your scar - it wasn't supposed to do this 
anymore! You mustn't let that connection open up again - Dumbledore wanted you to close 
your mind!"

When he did not reply, she gripped his arm.

     "Harry, he's taking over the Ministry and the newspapers and half the Wizarding 
world! Don't let him inside your head too!"

Chapter Six

The Ghoul in Pajamas

     The shock of losing Mad-Eye hung over the house in the days that followed; 
Harry kept expecting to see him stumping in through the back door like the 
other Order members, who passed in and out to relay news. Harry felt that 
nothing but action would assuage his feelings of guilt and grief and that he 
ought to set out on his mission to find and destroy Horcruxes as soon as 

     "Well, you can't do anything about the" - Ron mouthed the word Horcruxes -"till you're 
seventeen. You've still got the Trace on you. And we can plan here as well as anywhere, can't we? Or," 
he dropped his voice to a whisper, "d'you reckon you already know where the You-Know-Whats are?"

"No," Harry admitted.

     "I think Hermione's been doing a bit of research," said Ron. "She said she was 
saving it for when you got here."

     They were sitting at the breakfast table; Mr. Weasley and Bill had just 
left for work. Mrs. Weasley had gone upstairs to wake Hermione and Ginny, while 
Fleur had drifted off to take a bath.

     "The Trace'll break on the thirty-first," said Harry. "That means I only need 
to stay here four days. Then I can -"

     "Five days," Ron corrected him firmly. "We've got to stay for the wedding. 
They'll kill us if we miss it."

Harry understood "they" to mean Fleur and Mrs. Weasley.

"It's one extra day," said Ron, when Harry looked mutinous.

"Don't they realize how important -?"

     '"Course they don't," said Ron. "They haven't got a clue. And now you mention 
it, I wanted to talk to you about that."

     Ron glanced toward the door into the hall to check that Mrs. Weasley was 
not returning yet, then leaned in closer to Harry.

     "Mum's been trying to get it out of Hermione and me. What we're off to do. 
She'll try you next, so brace yourself. Dad and Lupin've both asked as well, but 
when we

said Dumbledore told you not to tell anyone except us, they dropped it. Not Mum, 
though. She's determined."

     Ron's prediction came true within hours. Shortly before lunch, Mrs. 
Weasley detached Harry from the others by asking him to help identify a lone 
man's sock that she thought might have come out of his rucksack. Once she had 
him cornered in the tiny scullery off the kitchen, she started.

     "Ron and Hermione seem to think that the three of you are dropping out of 
Hogwarts," she began in a light, casual tone.

"Oh," said Harry. "Well, yeah. We are."

     The mangle turned of its own accord in a corner, wringing out what looked 
like one of Mr. Weasley's vests.

"May I ask why you are abandoning your education?" said Mrs. Weasley.

     "Well, Dumbledore left me . . . stuff to do," mumbled Harry. "Ron and Hermione 
know about it, and they want to come too."

"What sort of'stuff?"

"I'm sorry, I can't-"

     "Well, frankly, I think Arthur and I have a right to know, and I'm sure Mr. And Mrs. 
Granger would agree!" said Mrs. Weasley. Harry had been afraid of the "concerned 
parent" attack. He forced himself to look directly into her eyes, noticing as he did so that 
they were precisely the same shade of brown as Ginny's. This did not help.

     "Dumbledore didn't want anyone else to know, Mrs. Weasley. I'm sorry. Ron and 
Hermione don't have to come, it's their choice -"

     "I don't see that you have to go either!" she snapped, dropping all pretense 
now. "You're barely of age, any of you! It's utter nonsense, if Dumbledore needed work 
doing, he had the whole Order at his command! Harry, you must have misunderstood him. Probably 
he was telling you something he wanted done, and you took it to mean that he wanted you-'

"I didn't misunderstand," said Harry flatly. "It's got to be me."

     He handed her back the single sock he was supposed to be identifying, 
which was patterned with golden bulrushes.

"And that's not mine. I don't support Puddlemere United."

     "Oh, of course not," said Mrs. Weasley with a sudden and rather unnerving return to 
her casual tone. "I should have realized. Well, Harry, while we've still got you here, you 
won't mind helping with the preparations for Bill and Fleur's wedding, will you? There's still so 
much to do."

     "No -1 - of course not," said Harry, disconcerted by this sudden change of 

"Sweet of you," she replied, and she smiled as she left the scullery.

     From that moment on, Mrs. Weasley kept Harry, Ron and Hermione so busy 
with preparations for the wedding that they hardly had any time to think. The 
kindest explanation of this behavior would have been that Mrs. Weasley wanted 
to distract them all from thoughts of Mad-Eye and the terrors of their recent 
journey. After two days of nonstop cutlery cleaning, of color-matching favors, 
ribbons, and flowers, of de-gnoming the garden and helping Mrs. Weasley cook 
vast batches of canapes, however, Harry started to suspect her of a different 
motive. All the jobs she handed out seemed to keep him, Ron, and Hermione away 
from one another; he had not had a chance to speak to the

two of them alone since the first night, when he had told them about Voldemort 
torturing Ollivander.

     "I think Mum thinks that if she can stop the three of you getting together and 
planning, she'll be able to delay you leaving," Ginny told Harry in an undertone, as 
they laid the table for dinner on the third night of his stay.

     "And then what does she think's going to happen?" Harry muttered. "Someone else 
might kill off Voldemort while she's holding us here making vol-au-vents?"

He had spoken without thinking, and saw Ginny's face whiten.

"So it's true?" she said. "That's what you're trying to do?"

"I - not - I was joking," said Harry evasively.

     They stared at each other, and there was something more than shock in 
Ginny's expression. Suddenly Harry became aware that this was the first time 
that he had been alone with her since those stolen hours in secluded corners of 
the Hogwarts grounds. He was sure she was remembering them too. Both of them 
jumped as the door opened, and Mr. Weasley, Kingsley, and Bill walked in.

     They were often joined by other Order members for dinner now, because the 
Burrow had replaced number twelve, Grimmauld Place as the headquarters. Mr. 
Weasley had explained that after the death of Dumbledore, their Secret-Keeper, 
each of the people to whom Dumbledore had confided Grimmauld Place's location 
had become a Secret-Keeper in turn.

     "And as there are around twenty of us, that greatly dilutes the power of the 
Fidelius Charm. Twenty times as many opportunities for the Death Eaters to get the secret 
out of somebody. We can't expect it to hold much longer."

     "But surely Snape will have told the Death Eaters the address by now?" 
asked Harry.

     "Well, Mad-Eye set up a couple of curses against Snape in case he turns up 
there again. We hope they'll be strong enough both to keep him out and to bind his tongue 
if he tries to talk about the place, but we can't be sure. It would have been insane to 
keep using the place as headquarters now that its protection has become so shaky."

     The kitchen was so crowded that evening it was difficult to maneuver 
knives and forks. Harry found himself crammed beside Ginny; the unsaid things 
that had just passed between them made him wish they had been separated by a 
few more people. He was trying so hard to avoid brushing her arm he could 
barely cut his chicken.

"No news about Mad-Eye?" Harry asked Bill.

"Nothing," replied Bill.

     They had not been able to hold a funeral for Moody, because Bill and Lupin 
had failed to recover his body. It had been difficult to know where he might 
have fallen, given the darkness and the confusion of the battle.

     "The Daily Prophet hasn't said a word about him dying or about finding the body," 
Bill went on. "But that doesn't mean much. It's keeping a lot quiet these days."

     "And they still haven't called a hearing about all the underage magic I used 
escaping the Death Eaters?" Harry called across the table to Mr. Weasley, who shook 
his head.

     "Because they know I had no choice or because they don't want me to tell the 
world Voldemort attacked me?"

     "The latter, I think. Scrimgeour doesn't want to admit that You-Know-Who is as 
powerful as he is, nor that Azkaban's seen a mass breakout."

     "Yeah, why tell the public the truth?" said Harry, clenching his knife so 
tightly that the faint scars on the back of his right hand stood out, white against his 
skin: I must not tell lies.

"Isn't anyone at the Ministry prepared to stand up to him?" asked Ron angrily.

     "Of course, Ron, but people are terrified," Mr. Weasley replied, "terrified 
that they will be next to disappear, their children the next to be attacked! There are nasty rumors 
going around; I for one don't believe the Muggle Studies professor at Hogwarts resigned. She hasn't 
been seen for weeks now. Meanwhile Scrimgeour remains shut up in his office all day; I just hope 
he's working on a plan."

     There was a pause in which Mrs. Weasley magicked the empty plates onto the 
work surface and served apple tart.

     "We must decide 'ow you will be disguised, ' Any," said Fleur, once everyone had pudding. 
"For ze wedding," she added, when he looked confused. "Of course, none of our guests are Death 
Eaters, but we cannot guarantee zat zey will not let something slip after zey 'ave 'ad champagne."

From this, Harry gathered that she still suspected Hagrid.

     "Yes, good point," said Mrs. Weasley from the top of the table where she sat, 
spectacles perched on the end of her nose, scanning an immense list of jobs that she had scribbled 
on a very long piece of parchment. "Now, Ron, have you cleaned out your room yet?"

     "Why?" exclaimed Ron, slamming his spoon down and glaring at his mother. "Why 
does my room have to be cleaned out? Harry and I are fine with it the way it is!"

"We are holding your brother's wedding here in a few days' time, young man -"

     "And are they getting married in my bedroom?" asked Ron furiously. "No! So why 
in the name of Merlin's saggy left -"

     "Don't talk to your mother like that," said Mr. Weasley firmly. "And do as 
you're told."

     Ron scowled at both his parents, then picked up his spoon and attacked the 
last few mouthfuls of his apple tart.

     "I can help, some of it's my mess." Harry told Ron, but Mrs. Weasley cut 
across him.

     "No, Harry, dear, I'd much rather you helped Arthur much out the chickens, and 
Hermione, I'd be ever so grateful if you'd change the sheets for Monsieur and Madame 
Delacour; you know they're arriving at eleven tomorrow morning."

     But as it turned out, there was very little to do for the chickens. "There's no need to, 
er, mention it to Molly," Mr. Weasley told Harry, blocking his access to the coop, "but, 
er, Ted Tonks sent me most of what was left of Sirius's bike and, er, I'm hiding - that's to say, 
keeping - it in here. Fantastic stuff: There's an exhaust gaskin, as I believe it's called, the 
most magnificent battery, and it'll be a great opportunity to find out how brakes work. I'm going 
to try and put it all back together again when Molly's not - I mean, when I've got time."

     When they returned to the house, Mrs. Weasley was nowhere to be seen, so 
Harry slipped upstairs to Ron's attic bedroom.

     "I'm doing it, I'm doing - ! Oh, it's you," said Ron in relief, as Harry 
entered the room. Ron lay back down on the bed, which he had evidently just vacated. The 
room was just as messy as it had been all week; the only chance was that Hermione was now 
sitting in the far corner, her fluffy ginger cat, Crookshanks, at her feet, sorting 
books, some of which Harry recognized as his own, into two enormous piles.

"Hi, Harry," she said, as he sat down on his camp bed.

"And how did you manage to get away?"

     "Oh, Ron's mum forgot that she asked Ginny and me to change the sheets 
yesterday," said Hermione. She threw Numerology and Grammatica onto one pile and The 
Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts onto the other.

     "We were just talking about Mad-Eye," Ron told Harry. "I reckon he might have 

"But Bill saw him hit by the Killing Curse," said Harry.

     "Yeah, but Bill was under attack too," said Ron. "How can he be sure what he 

     "Even if the Killing Curse missed, Mad-Eye still fell about a thousand 
feet," said Hermione, now weight Quidditch Teams of Britain and Irelandin her hand.

"He could have used a Shield Charm -"

"Fleur said his wand was blasted out of his hand," said Harry.

     "Well, all right, if you want him to be dead," said Ron grumpily, punching 
his pillow into a more comfortable shape.

     "Of course we don't want him to be dead!" said Hermione, looking shocked. "It's 
dreadful that he's dead! But we're being realistic!"

     For the first time, Harry imagined Mad-Eye's body, broken as Dumbledore's 
had been, yet with that one eye still whizzing in its socket. He felt a stab of 
revulsion mixed with a bizarre desire to laugh.

     "The Death Eaters probably tidied up after themselves, that's why no one's 
found him," said Ron wisely.

     "Yeah," said Harry. "Like Baity Crouch, turned into a bone and buried in 
Hagrid's front garden. They probably transfigured Moody and stuffed him -"

     "Don't!" squealed Hermione. Startled, Harry looked over just in time to 
see her burst into tears over her copy of Spellman 's Syllabary.

     "Oh no," said Harry, struggling to get up from the old camp bed. "Hermione, I 
wasn't trying to upset -"

     But with a great creaking of rusty bedsprings, Ron bounded off the bed and got there 
first. One arm around Hermione, he fished in his jeans pocket and withdrew a 
revolting-looking handkerchief that he had used to clean out the oven earlier. Hastily 
pulling out his wand, he pointed it at the rag and said, "Tergeo."

     The wand siphoned off most of the grease. Looking rather pleased with 
himself, Ron handed the slightly smoking handkerchief to Hermione.

     "Oh . . . thanks, Ron. . . . I'm sorry. . . ." She blew her nose and hiccupped. 
"It's just so awf-ful, isn't it? R-right after Dumbledore . . . I j-just n-never imagined 
Mad-Eye dying, somehow, he seemed so tough!"

     "Yeah, I know," said Ron, giving her a squeeze. "But you know what he'd say to 
us if he was here?"

'"C-constant vigilance,'" said Hermione, mopping her eyes.

     "That's right," said Ron, nodding. "He'd tell us to learn from what happened to 
him. And what I've learned is not to trust that cowardly little squit, Mundungus."

     Hermione gave a shaky laugh and leaned forward to pick up two more books. 
A second later, Ron had snatched his arm back from around her shoulders; she 
had dropped The Monster of Monsters on his foot. The book had broken free from 
its restraining belt and snapped viciously at Ron's ankle.

     "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Hermione cried as Harry wrenched the book from 
Ron's leg and retied it shit.

     "What are you doing with all those books anyway?" Ron asked, limping back 
to his bed.

     "Just trying to decide which ones to take with us," said Hermione, "When we're 
looking for the Horcruxes."

     "Oh, of course," said Ron, clapping a hand to his forehead. "I forgot we'll be 
hunting down Voldemort in a mobile library."

     "Ha ha," said Hermione, looking down at Spellman 's Syllabary. "I wonder . . . 
will we need to translate runes? It's possible. ... I think we'd better take it, to be safe."

     She dropped the syllabary onto the larger of the two piles and picked up 
Hogwarts, A History.

"Listen," said Harry.

     He had sat up straight. Ron and Hermione looked at him with similar 
mixtures of resignation and defiance.

     "I know you said after Dumbledore's funeral that you wanted to come with 
me," Harry began.

"Here he goes," Ron said to Hermione, rolling his eyes.

     "As we knew he would," he sighed, turning back to the books. "You know, I think 
I will take Hogwarts, A History. Even if we're not going back there, I don't think I'd feel right 
if I didn't have it with -"

"Listen!" said Harry again.

     "No, Harry, you listen," said Hermione. "We're coming with you. That was 
decided months ago - years, really."


"Shut up," Ron advised him.

"- are you sure you've thought this through?" Harry persisted.

     "Let's see," said Hermione, slamming Travels with Trolls onto the discarded 
pile with a rather fierce look. "I've been packing for days, so we're ready to leave at a 
moment's notice, which for your information has included doing some pretty difficult magic, 
not to mention smuggling Mad-Eye's whole stock of Polyjuice Potion right under Ron's mum's 

     "I've also modified my parents' memories so that they're convinced they're 
really called Wendell and Monica Wilkins, and that their life's ambition is to move 
to Australia, which they have now done. That's to make it more difficult for 
Voldemort to track them down and interrogate them about me - or you, because 
unfortunately, I've told them quite a bit about you.

     "Assuming I survive our hunt for the Horcruxes, I'll find Mum and Dad and 
lift the enchantment. If I don't - well, I think I've cast a good enough charm to 
keep them

safe and happy. Wendell and Monica Wilkins don't know that they've got a daughter, 
you see."

     Hermione's eyes were swimming with tears again. Ron got back off the bed, 
put his arm around her once more, and frowned at Harry as though reproaching 
him for lack of tact. Harry could not think of anything to say, not least 
because it was highly unusual for Ron to be teaching anyone else tact.

"I - Hermione, I'm sorry - I didn't -"

     "Didn't realize that Ron and I know perfectly well what might happen if we come 
with you? Well, we do. Ron, show Harry what you've done."

"Nah, he's just eaten," said Ron.

"Go on, he needs to know!"

"Oh, all right. Harry, come here."

     For the second time Ron withdrew his arm from around Hermione and stumped 
over to the door.


"Why?" Harry asked, following Ron out of the room onto the tiny landing.

     "Descendo" muttered Ron, pointing his wand at the low ceiling. A hatch 
opened right over their heads and a ladder slid down to their feet. A horrible, 
half-sucking, half-moaning sound came out of the square hole, along with an unpleasant 
smell like open drains.

     "That's your ghoul, isn't it?" asked Harry, who had never actually met the 
creature that sometimes disrupted the nightly silence.

"Yeah, it is," said Ron, climbing the ladder. "Come and have a look at him."

     Harry followed Ron up the few short steps into the tiny attic space. His 
head and shoulders were in the room before he caught sight of the creature 
curled up a few feet from him, fast asleep in the gloom with its large mouth 
wide open.

"But it... it looks ... do ghouls normally wear pajamas?"

"No," said Ron. "Nor have they usually got red hair or that number of pustules."

     Harry contemplated the thing, slightly revolted. It was human in shape and 
size, and was wearing what, now that Harry's eyes became used to the darkness, 
was clearly an old pair of Ron's pajamas. He was also sure that ghouls were 
generally rather slimy and bald, rather than distinctly hairy and covered in 
angry purple blisters.

"He's me, see?" said Ron.

"No," said Harry. "I don't."

     "I'll explain it back in my room, the smell's getting to me," said Ron. 
They climbed back down the ladder, which Ron returned to the ceiling, and rejoined 
Hermione, who was still sorting books.

     "Once we've left, the ghoul's going to come and live down here in my room," said 
Ron. "I think he's really looking forward to it - well, it's hard to tell, because all he can 
do is moan and drool - but he nods a lot when you mention it. Anyway, he's going to be me with 
spattergroit. Good, eh?"

Harry merely looked his confusion.

     "It is!" said Ron, clearly frustrated that Harry had not grasped the brilliance of 
the plan. "Look, when we three don't turn up at Hogwarts again, everyone's going to think 
Hermione and I must be with you, right? Which means the Death Eaters will go straight for our 
families to see if they've got information on where you are."

     "But hopefully it'll look like I've gone away with Mum and Dad; a lot of 
Muggle-borns are talking about going into hiding at the moment," said Hermione.

     "We can't hide my whole family, it'll look too fishy and they can't all leave their 
jobs," said Ron. "So we're going to put out the story that I'm seriously ill with 
spattergroit, which is why I can't go back to school. If anyone comes calling to investigate, Mum 
or Dad can show them the ghoul in my bed, covered in pustules. Spattergroit's really contagious, so 
they're not going to want to go near him. It won't matter that he can't say anything, either, 
because apparently you can't once the fungus has spread to your uvula."

"And your mum and dad are in on this plan?" asked Harry.

     "Dad is. He helped Fred and George transform the ghoul. Mum . . . well, you've 
seen what she's like. She won't accept we're going till we're gone."

     There was silence in the room, broken only by gentle thuds as Hermione 
continued to throw books onto one pile or the other. Ron sat watching her, and 
Harry looked from one to the other, unable to say anything. The measure they 
had taken to protect their families made him realize, more than anything else 
could have done, that they really were going to come with him and that they 
knew exactly how dangerous that would be. He wanted to tell them what that 
meant to him, but he simply could not find words important enough.

     Through the silence came the muffled sounds of Mrs. Weasley shouting from 
four floors below.

     "Ginny's probably left a speck of dust on a poxy napkin ring," said Ron. "I 
dunno why the Delacours have got to come two days before the wedding."

     "Fleur's sister's a bridesmaid, she needs to be here for the rehearsal, and 
she's too young to come on her own," said Hermione, as she pored indecisively over 
Break with a Banshee.

"Well, guests aren't going to help Mum's stress levels," said Ron.

     "What we really need to decide," said Hermione, tossing Defensive Magical Theory 
into the bin without a second glance and picking up An Appraisal of Magical Education in Europe, 
"is where we're going after we leave here. I know you said you wanted to go to Godric's Hollow 
first, Harry, and I understand why, but. . . well . . . shouldn't we make the Horcruxes our 

     "If we knew where any of the Horcruxes were, I'd agree with you," said 
Harry, who did not believe that Hermione really understood his desire to return to 
Godric's Hollow. His parents' graves were only part of the attraction: He had a strong, 
though inexplicable, feeling that the place held answers for him. Perhaps it was simply 
because it was there that he had survived Voldemort's Killing Curse; now that he was 
facing the challenge of repeating the feat, Harry was drawn to the place where it had 
happened, wanting to understand.

     "Don't you think there's a possibility that Voldemort's keeping a watch on Godric's 
Hollow?" Hermione asked. "He might expect you to go back and visit your parents' graves 
once you're free to go wherever you like?"

     This had not occurred to Harry. While he struggled to find a 
counterargument, Ron spoke up, evidently following his own train of thought.

"This R.A.B. person," he said. "You know, the one who stole the real locket?"

Hermione nodded.

"He said in his note he was going to destroy it, didn't he?"

     Harry dragged his rucksack toward him and pulled out the fake Horcrux in 
which R.A.B.'s note was still folded.

     " 'I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I 
can."' Harry read out.

"Well, what if he did finish it off?" said Ron.

"Or she." Interposed Hermione.

"Whichever," said Ron. "it'd be one less for us to do!"

     "Yes, but we're still going to have to try and trace the real locket, aren't we?" 
said Hermione, "to find out whether or not it's destroyed."

"And once we get hold of it, how do you destroy a Horcrux?" asked Ron.

"Well," said Hermione, "I've been researching that."

     "How?" asked Harry. "I didn't think there were any books on Horcruxes in the 

     "There weren't," said Hermione, who had turned pink. "Dumbledore removed them 
all, but he - he didn't destroy them."

Ron sat up straight, wide-eyed.

     "How in the name of Merlin's pants have you managed to get your hands on those 
Horcrux books?"

     "It - it wasn't stealing!" said Hermione, looking from Harry to Ron with a kind of 
desperation. "They were still library books, even if Dumbledore had taken them off the 
shelves. Anyway, if he really didn't want anyone to get at them, I'm sure he would have made it 
much harder to -"

"Get to the point!" said Ron.

     "Well ... it was easy," said Hermione in a small voice. "I just did a Summoning 
Charm. You know - Accio. And - they zoomed out of Dumbledore's study window right into the girls' 

     "But when did you do this?" Harry asked, regarding Hermione with a mixture 
of admiration and incredulity.

     "Just after his - Dumbledore's - funeral," said Hermione in an even smaller voice. 
"Right after we agreed we'd leave school and go and look for the Horcruxes. When I went back 
upstairs to get my things it - it just occurred to me that the more we knew about them, the better 
it would be . . . and I was alone in there ... so I tried . . . and it worked. They flew straight 
in through the open window and I - I packed them."

     She swallowed and then said imploringly, "I can't believe Dumbledore would have 
been angry, it's not as though we're going to use the information to make a Horcrux, is 

"Can you hear us complaining?" said Ron. "Where are these books anyway?"

     Hermione rummaged for a moment and then extracted from the pile a large 
volume, bound in faded black leather. She looked a little nauseated and held it 
as gingerly as if it were something recently dead.

     "This is the one that gives explicit instructions on how to make a Horcrux. 
Secrets of the Darkest Art - it's a horrible book, really awful, full of evil magic. I 
wonder when Dumbledore removed it from the library. ... if he didn't do it until he was 
headmaster, I bet Voldemort got all the instruction he needed from here."

     "Why did he have to ask Slughorn how to make a Horcrux, then, if he'd already 
read that?" asked Ron.

     "He only approached Slughorn to find out what would happen if you split your soul into 
seven," said Harry. "Dumbledore was sure Riddle already knew how to make a Horcrux by the 
time he asked Slughorn about them. I think you're right, Hermione, that could easily have been 
where he got the information."

     "And the more I've read about them," said Hermione, "the more horrible they 
seem, and the less I can believe that he actually made six. It warns in this book how unstable you 
make the rest of your soul by ripping it, and that's just by making one Horcrux!"

     Harry remembered what Dumbledore had said about Voldemort moving beyond "usual 

"Isn't there any way of putting yourself back together?" Ron asked.

     "Yes," said Hermione with a hollow smile, "but it would be excruciatingly 

"Why? How do you do it?" asked Harry.

     "Remorse," said Hermione. "You've got to really feel what you've done. There's 
a footnote. Apparently the pain of it can destroy you. I can't see Voldemort attempting it somehow, 
can you?"

     "No," said Ron, before Harry could answer. "So does it say how to destroy 
Horcruxes in that book?"

     "Yes," said Hermione, now turning the fragile pages as if examining rotting 
entrails, "because it warns Dark wizards how strong they have to make the enchantments on 
them. From all that I've read, what Harry did to Riddle's diary was one of the few really foolproof 
ways of destroying a Horcrux."

"What, stabbing it with a basilisk fang?" asked Harry.

     "Oh well, lucky we've got such a large supply of basilisk fangs, then," said Ron. 
"I was wondering what we were going to do with them."

     "It doesn't have to be a basilisk fang," said Hermione patiently. "It has to be 
something so destructive that the Horcrux can't repair itself. Basilisk venom only has one 
antidote, and it's incredibly rare -"

"- phoenix tears," said Harry, nodding.

     "Exactly," said Hermione. "Our problem is that there are very few substances as 
destructive as basilisk venom, and they're all dangerous to carry around with you. That's a problem 
we're going to have to solve, though, because ripping, smashing, or crushing a Horcrux won't do the 
trick. You've got to put it beyond magical repair."

     "But even if we wreck the thing it lives in," said Ron, "why can't the bit of 
soul in it just go and live in something else?"

"Because a Horcrux is the complete opposite of a human being."

     Seeing that Harry and Ron looked thoroughly confused, Hermione hurried on. 
"Look, if I picked up a sword right now, Ron, and ran you through with it, I 
wouldn't damage your soul at all."

"Which would be a real comfort to me, I'm sure," said Ron. Harry laughed.

     "It should be, actually! But my point is that whatever happens to your body, your 
soul will survive, untouched," said Hermione. "But it's the other way round with a

Horcrux. The fragment of soul inside it depends on its container, its enchanted 
body, for survival. It can't exist without it."

     "That diary sort of died when I stabbed it," said Harry, remembering ink 
pouring like blood from the punctured pages, and the screams of the piece of Voldemort's 
soul as it vanished.

     "And once the diary was properly destroyed, the bit of soul trapped in it could 
no longer exist. Ginny tried to get rid of the diary before you did, flushing it away, 
but obviously it came back good as new."

     "Hang on," said Ron, frowning. "The bit of soul in that diary was possessing 
Ginny, wasn't it? How does that work, then?"

     "While the magical container is still intact, the bit of soul inside it can flit in and 
out of someone if they get too close to the object. I don't mean holding it for too long, it's 
nothing to do with touching it," she added before Ron could speak. "I mean close 
emotionally. Ginny poured her heart out into that diary, she made herself incredibly vulnerable. 
You're in trouble if you get too fond of or dependent on the Horcrux."

     "I wonder how Dumbledore destroyed the ring?" said Harry. "Why didn't I ask 
him? I never really . . ."

     His voice trailed away: He was thinking of all the things he should have 
asked Dumbledore, and of how, since the headmaster had died, it seemed to Harry 
that he had wasted so many opportunities when Dumbledore had been alive, to 
find out more ... to find out everything. . . .

     The silence was shattered as the bedroom door flew open with a 
wall-shaking crash. Hermione shrieked and dropped Secrets of the Darkest Art; 
Crookshanks streaked under the bed, hissing indignantly; Ron jumped off the 
bed, skidded on a discarded Chocolate Frog wrapper, and smacked his head on the 
opposite wall; and Harry instinctively dived for his wand before realizing that 
he was looking up at Mrs. Weasley, whose hair was disheveled and whose face was 
contorted with rage.

     "I'm so sorry to break up this cozy little gathering," she said, her voice 
trembling. "I'm sure you all need your rest. . . but there are wedding presents stacked in my 
room that need sorting out and I was under the impression that you had agreed to help."

     "Oh yes," said Hermione, looking terrified as she leapt to her feet, sending books 
flying in every direction, "we will . . . we're sorry . . ."

     With an anguished look at Harry and Ron, Hermione hurried out of the room 
after Mrs. Weasley.

     "it's like being a house-elf," complained Ron in an undertone, still massaging his 
head as he and Harry followed. "Except without the job satisfaction. The sooner this wedding's 
over, the happier, I'll be."

     "Yeah," said Harry, "then we'll have nothing to do except find Horcruxes. . . . 
It'll be like a holiday, won't it?"

     Ron started to laugh, but at the sight of the enormous pile of wedding 
presents waiting for them in Mrs. Weasley's room, stopped quite abruptly.

     The Delacours arrived the following morning at eleven o' clock. Harry, 
Ron, Hermione and Ginny were feeling quite resentful toward Fleur's family by 
this time; and it was with ill grace that Ron stumped back upstairs to put on 
matching socks, and Harry attempted to flatten his hair. Once they had all been 
deemed smart enough, they trooped out into the sunny backyard to await the 

     Harry had never seen the place looking so tidy. The rusty cauldrons and 
old Wellington boots that usually littered the steps by the back door were 
gone, replaced by two new Flutterby bushes standing either side of the door in 
large pots; though there was no breeze, the leaves waved lazily, giving an 
attractive rippling effect. The chickens had been shut away, the yard had been 
swept, and the nearby garden had been pruned, plucked, and generally spruced 
up, although Harry, who liked it in its overgrown state, thought that it looked 
rather forlorn without its usual contingent of capering gnomes.

     He had lost track of how many security enchantments had been placed upon 
the Burrow by both the Order and the Ministry; all he knew was that it was no 
longer possible for anybody to travel by magic directly into the place. Mr. 
Weasley had therefore gone to meet the Delacours on top of a nearby hill, where 
they were to arrive by Portkey. The first sound of their approach was an 
unusually high-pitched laugh, which turned out to be coming from Mr. Weasley, 
who appeared at the gate moments later, laden with luggage and leading a 
beautiful blonde woman in long, leaf green robes, who could be Fleur's mother.

"Maman!" cried Fleur, rushing forward to embrace her. "Papa!"

     Monsieur Delacour was nowhere near as attractive as his wife; he was a 
head shorter and extremely plumb, with a little, pointed black beard. However, 
he looked good-natured. Bouncing towards Mrs. Weasley on high-heeled boots, he 
kissed her twice on each cheek, leaving her flustered.

     "You 'ave been so much trouble," he said in a deep voice. "Fleur tells us you 
'ave been working very 'ard."

"Oh, it's been nothing, nothing!" trilled Mrs. Weasley. "No trouble at all!"

     Ron relieved his feelings by aiming a kick at a gnome who was peering out 
from behind one of the new Flutterby bushes.

     "Dear lady!" said Monsieur Delacour, still holding Mrs. Weasley's hand between his 
own two plump ones and beaming. "We are most honored at the approaching union of our two 
families! Let me present my wife, Apolline."

Madame Delacour glided forward and stooped to kiss Mrs. Weasley too.

"Enchantee" she said. "Your 'usband 'as been telling us such amusing stories!"

     Mr. Weasley gave a maniacal laugh; Mrs. Weasley threw him a look, upon 
which he became immediately silent and assumed an expression appropriate to the 
sickbed of a close friend.

     "And, of course, you 'ave met my leetle daughter, Gabrielle!" said 
Monsieur Delacour. Gabrielle was Fleur in miniature; eleven years old, with waist-length 
hair of pure, silvery blonde, she gave Mrs. Weasley a dazzling smile and hugged her, then 
threw Harry a glowing look, batting her eyelashes. Ginny cleared her throat loudly.

     "Well, come in, do!" said Mrs. Weasley brightly, and she ushered the Delacours into the house, with many 
"No, please!"s and "After you!"s and "Not at all!"s.

     The Delacours, it soon transpired, were helpful, pleasant guests. They were pleased 
with everything and keen to assist with the preparations for the wedding. Monsieur 
Delacour pronounced everything from the seating plan to the bridesmaids' shoes 
"Charmant!" Madame Delacour was most accomplished at household spells and had 
the oven properly cleaned in a trice; Gabrielle followed her elder sister around, trying 
to assist in any way she could and jabbering away in rapid French.

     On the downside, the Burrow was not built to accommodate so many people. 
Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were now sleeping in the sitting room, having shouted down 
Monsieur and Madame Delacour's protests and insisted they take their bedroom. 
Gabrielle was sleeping with Fleur in Percy's old room, and Bill would be 
sharing with Charlie, his best man, once Charlie arrived from Romania. 
Opportunities to make plans together became virtually nonexistent, and it was 
in desperation that Harry, Ron and Hermione took to volunteering to feed the 
chickens just to escape the overcrowded house.

     "But she still won't leave us alone!" snarled Ron, and their second 
attempt at a meeting in the yard was foiled by the appearance of Mrs. Weasley carrying a 
large basket of laundry in her arms.

     "Oh, good, you've fed the chickens," she called as she approached them. "We'd better shut 
them away again before the men arrive tomorrow ... to put up the tent for the wedding," she explained, 
pausing to lean against the henhouse. She looked exhausted. "Millamant's Magic Marquees . . . they're 
very good. Bill's escorting them. . . . You'd better stay inside while they're here, Harry. I must say it 
does complicate organizing a wedding, having all these security spells around the place."

"I'm sorry," said Harry humbly.

     "Oh, don't be silly, dear!" said Mrs. Weasley at once. "I didn't mean - well, 
your safety's much more important! Actually, I've been wanting to ask you how you want to celebrate 
your birthday, Harry. Seventeen, after all, it's an important day. . . ."

     "I don't want a fuss," said Harry quickly, envisaging the additional strain this 
would put on them all. "Really, Mrs. Weasley, just a normal dinner would be fine. ... It's the 
day before the wedding. . . ."

     "Oh, well, if you're sure, dear. I'll invite Remus and Tonks, shall I? And how 
about Hagrid?"

"That'd be great," said Harry. "But please, don't go to loads of trouble."

"Not at all, not at all . . . It's no trouble. . . ."

     She looked at him, a long, searching look, then smiled a little sadly, 
straightened up, and walked away. Harry watched as she waved her wand near the 
washing line, and the damp clothes rose into the air to hang themselves up, and 
suddenly he felt a great wave of remorse for the inconvenience and the pain he 
was giving her.

Chapter Seven The Will ofAlbus Dumbledore

     He was walking along a mountain road in the cool blue light of dawn. Far 
below, swathed in mist, was the shadow of a small town. Was the man he sought 
down there, the man he needed so badly he could think of little else, the man 
who held the answer, the answer to his problem...?

"Oi, wake up."

     Harry opened his eyes. He was lying again on the camp bed in Ron's dingy 
attic room. The sun had not yet risen and the room was still shadowy. 
Pigwidgeon was asleep with his head under his tiny wing. The scar on Harry's 
forehead was prickling.

"You were muttering in your sleep."

"Was I?"

"Yeah. 'Gregorovitch.' You kept saying 'Gregorovitch.'"

Harry was not wearing his glasses; Ron's face appeared slightly blurred.

"Who's Gregorovitch?"

"I dunno, do I?" You were the one saying it."

     Harry rubbed his forehead, thinking. He had a vague idea he had heard the 
name before, but he could not think where.

"I think Voldemort's looking for him."

"Poor bloke," said Ron fervently.

     Harry sat up, still rubbing his scar, now wide awake. He tried to remember 
exactly what he had seen in the dream, but all that came back was a mountainous 
horizon and the outline of the little village cradled in a deep valley.

"I think he's abroad."

"Who, Gregorovitch?"

     "Voldemort. I think he's somewhere abroad, looking for Gregorovitch. It didn't 
look like anywhere in Britain."

"You reckon you were seeing into his mind again?"

Ron sounded worried.

     "Do me a favor and don't tell Hermione," said Harry. "Although how she expects 
me to stop seeing stuff in my sleep..."

     He gazed up at little Pigwidgeon's cage, thinking...Why was the name 
"Gregorovitch" familiar?

     "I think," he said slowly, "he's got something to do with Quidditch. There's 
some connection, but I can't?I can't think what it is."

"Quidditch?" said Ron. "Sure you're not thinking of Gorgovitch?"


     "Dragomir Gorgovitch, Chaser, transferred to the Chudley Cannons for a record 
fee two years ago. Record holder for most Quaffle drops in a season."

"No," said Harry. "I'm definitely not thinking of Gorgovitch."

"I try not to either," said Ron. "Well, happy birthday anyway."

"Wow ? that's right, I forgot! I'm seventeen!"

     Harry seized the wand lying beside his camp bed, pointed it at the cluttered desk 
where he had left his glasses, and said, "Accio Glasses!" Although they were 
only around a foot away, there was something immensely satisfying about seeing them zoom 
toward him, at least until they poked him in the eye.

"Slick," snorted Ron.

     Reveling in the removal of his Trace, Harry sent Ron's possessions flying 
around the room, causing Pigwidgeon to wake up and flutter excitedly around his 
cage. Harry also tried tying the laces of his trainers by magic (the resultant 
knot took several minutes to untie by hand) and, purely for the pleasure of it, 
turned the orange robes on Ron's Chudley Cannons posters bright blue.

     "I'd do your fly by hand, though," Ron advised Harry, sniggering when Harry 
immediately checked it. "Here's your present. Unwrap it up here, it's not for my mother's 

     "A book?" said Harry as he took the rectangular parcel. "Bit of a departure 
from tradition, isn't it?"

     "This isn't your average book," said Ron. "It'd pure gold: Twelve Fail-Safe 
Ways to Charm Witches. Explains everything you need to know about girls. If only I'd had this last 
year I'd have known exactly how to get rid of Lavender and I would've known how to get going 
with... Well, Fred and George gave me a copy, and I've learned a lot. You'd be surprised, it's not 
all about wandwork, either."

     When they arrived in the kitchen they found a pile of presents waiting on 
the table. Bill and Monsieur Delacour were finishing their breakfasts, while 
Mrs. Weasley stood chatting to them over the frying pan.

     "Arthur told me to wish you a happy seventeenth, Harry," said Mrs. Weasley, beaming 
at him. "He had to leave early for work, but he'll be back for dinner. That's our present on 

     Harry sat down, took the square parcel she had indicated, and unwrapped 
it. Inside was a watch very like the one Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had given Ron for 
his seventeenth; it was gold, with stars circling around the race instead of 

     "It's traditional to give a wizard a watch when he comes of age," said Mrs. Weasley, 
watching him anxiously from beside the cooker. "I'm afraid that one isn't new like Ron's, it 
was actually my brother Fabian's and he wasn't terribly careful with his possessions, it's a bit 
dented on the back, but--"

     The rest of her speech was lost; Harry had got up and hugged her. He tried 
to put a lot of unsaid things into the hug and perhaps she understood them, 
because she patted his cheek clumsily when he released her, then waved her wand 
in a slightly random way, causing half a pack of bacon to flop out of the 
frying pan onto the floor.

     "Happy birthday, Harry!" said Hermione, hurrying into the kitchen and adding her own 
present to the top of the pile. "It's not much, but I hope you like it. What did you get 
him?" she added to Ron, who seemed not to hear her.

"Come on, then, open Hermione's!" said Ron.

     She had bought him a new Sneakoscope. The other packages contained an enchanted razor from 
Bill and Fleur ("Ah yes, zis will give you ze smoothest shave you will ever 'ave," 
Monsieur Delacour assured him, "but you must tell it clearly what you want...ozzerwise you 
might find you 'ave a leetle less hair zan you would like..."), chocolates from the Delacours, 
and an enormous box of the latest Weasley s' Wizard Wheezes merchandise from Fred and George.

     Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not linger at the table, as the arrival of 
Madame Delacour, Fleur, and Gabrielle made the kitchen uncomfortably crowded.

     "I'll pack these for you," Hermione said brightly, taking Harry's presents out of 
his arms as the three of them headed back upstairs. "I'm nearly done, I'm just waiting for the 
rest of your underpants to come out of the wash, Ron--"

Ron's splutter was interrupted by the opening of a door on the first-floor 

"Harry, will you come in here a moment?"

     It was Ginny. Ron came to an abrupt halt, but Hermione took him by the 
elbow and tugged him on up the stairs. Feeling nervous, Harry followed Ginny 
into her room.

     He had never been inside it before. It was small, but bright. There was a 
large poster of the Wizarding band the Weird Sisters on one wall, and a picture 
of Gwenog Jones, Captain of the all-witch Quidditch team the Holyhead Harpies, 
on the other. A desk stood facing the open window, which looked out over the 
orchard where he and Ginny had once played a two-a-side Quidditch with Ron and 
Hermione, and which now housed a large, pearly white marquee. The golden flag 
on top was level with Ginny's window.

     Ginny looked up into Harry's face, took a deep breath, and said, "Happy 


     She was looking at him steadily; he however, found it difficult to look 
back at her; it was like gazing into a brilliant light.

"Nice view," he said feebly, pointing toward with window.

She ignored this. He could not blame her.

"I couldn't think what to get you," she said.

"You didn't have to get me anything."

She disregarded this too.

     "I didn't know what would be useful. Nothing too big, because you wouldn't be 
able to take it with you."

     He chanced a glance at her. She was not tearful; that was one of the many 
wonderful things about Ginny, she was rarely weepy. He had sometimes thought 
that having six brothers must have toughened her up.

She took a step closer to him.

     "So then I thought, I'd like you to have something to remember me by, you know, 
if you meet some veela when you're off doing whatever you're doing."

     "I think dating opportunities are going to be pretty thin on the ground, to be 

     "There's the silver lining I've been looking for," she whispered, and then 
she was kissing him as she had never kissed him before, and Harry was kissing her back, 
and it was blissful oblivion better than firewhisky; she was the only real thing in the 
world, Ginny, the feel of her, one hand at her back and one in her long, sweet-smelling 

The door banged open behind them and they jumped apart.

"Oh," said Ron pointedly. "Sorry."

     "Ron!" Hermione was just behind him, slight out of breath. There was a 
strained silence, then Ginny had said in a flat little voice,

"Well, happy birthday anyway, Harry."

     Ron's ears were scarlet; Hermione looked nervous. Harry wanted to slam the 
door in their faces, but it felt as though a cold draft had entered the room 
when the door opened, and his shining moment had popped like a soap bubble. All 
the reasons for ending his relationship with Ginny, for staying well away from 
her, seemed to have slunk inside the room with Ron, and all happy forgetfulness 
was gone.

     He looked at Ginny, wanting to say something, though he hardly knew what, 
but she had turned her back on him. He thought that she might have succumbed, 
for once, to tears. He could not do anything to comfort her in front of Ron.

"I'll see you later," he said, and followed the other two out of the bedroom.

     Ron marched downstairs, though the still-crowded kitchen and into the 
yard, and Harry kept pace with him all the way, Hermione trotting along behind 
them looking scared.

Once he reached the seclusion of the freshly mown lawn, Ron rounded on Harry.

"You ditched her. What are you doing now, messing her around?"

"I'm not messing her around," said Harry, as Hermione caught up with them.


But Ron held up a hand to silence her.

"She was really cut up when you ended it--"

"So was I. You know why I stopped it, and it wasn't because I wanted to."

     "Yeah, but you go snogging her now and she's just going to get her hopes up 

     "She's not an idiot, she knows it can't happen, she's not expecting us to?to 
end up married, or--"

     As he said it, a vivid picture formed in Harry's mind of Ginny in a white 
dress, marrying a tall, faceless, and unpleasant stranger.

     In one spiraling moment it seemed to hit him: Her future was free and 
unencumbered, whereas his...he could see nothing but Voldemort ahead.

"If you keep groping her every chance you get--"

     "It won't happen again," said Harry harshly. The day was cloudless, but he felt as 
though the sun had gone in. "Okay?"

     Ron looked half resentful, half sheepish; he rocked backward and forward on his feet 
for a moment, then said, "Right then, well, that's...yeah."

     Ginny did not seek another one-to-one meeting with Harry for the rest of 
the day, nor by any look or gesture did she show that they had shared more than 
polite conversation in her room. Nevertheless, Charlie's arrival came as a 
relief to Harry. It provided a distraction, watching Mrs. Weasley force Charlie 
into a chair, raise her wand threateningly, and announce that he was about to 
get a proper haircut.

     As Harry's birthday dinner would have stretched the Burrow's kitchen to 
breaking point even before the arrival of Charlie, Lupin, Tonks, and Hagrid, 
several tables were placed end to end in the garden. Fred and George bewitched 
a number of purple lanterns all emblazoned with a large number 17, to hang in 
midair over the guests. Thanks to Mrs. Weasley's ministrations, George's wound 
was neat and clean, but Harry was not yet used to the dark hole in the side of 
his head, despite the twins' many jokes about it.

     Hermione made purple and gold streamers erupt from the end of her wand and 
drape themselves artistically over the trees and bushes.

"Nice," said Ron, as with one final flourish of her wand, Hermione

turned the leaves on the crabapple tree to gold. "You've really got an eye for that 
sort of thing."

     "Thank you, Ron!" said Hermione, looking both pleased and a little 
confused. Harry turned away, smiling to himself. He had a funny notion that he would find 
a chapter on compliments when he found time to peruse his copy of Twelve Fail-Safe Ways 
to Charm Witches; he caught Ginny's eye and grinned at her before remembering his promise 
to Ron and hurriedly striking up a conversation with Monsieur Delacour.

     "Out of the way, out of the way!" sang Mrs. Weasley, coming through the 
gate with what appeared to be a giant, beach-ball-sized Snitch floating in front of her. 
Seconds later Harry realized that it was his birthday cake, which Mrs. Weasley was 
suspending with her wand, rather than risk carrying it over the uneven ground. When the 
cake had finally landed in the middle of the table, Harry said,

"That looks amazing, Mrs. Weasley."

     "Oh, it's nothing, dear," she said fondly. Over her shoulder, Ron gave 
Harry the thumbs-up and mouthed, Good one.

     By seven o'clock all the guests had arrived, led into the house by Fred 
and George, who had waited for them at the end of the lane. Hagrid had honored 
the occasion by wearing his best, and horrible, hairy brown suit. Although 
Lupin smiled as he shook Harry's hand, Harry thought he looked rather unhappy. 
It was all very odd; Tonks, beside him, looked simply radiant.

"Happy birthday, Harry," she said, hugging him tightly.

     "Seventeen, eh!" said Hagrid as he accepted a bucket-sized glass of wine from Fred. 
"Six years ter the day since we met, Harry, d'yeh remember it?"

     "Vaguely," said Harry, grinning up at him. "Didn't you smash down the front 
door, give Dudley a pig's tail, and tell me I was a wizard?"

"I forge' the details," Hagrid chortled. "All righ', Ron, Hermione?"

"We're fine," said Hermione. "How are you?"

     " Ar, not bad. Bin busy, we got some newborn unicorns. I'll show yeh when yeh get back--" 
Harry avoided Ron's and Hermione's gazes as Hagrid rummaged in his pocket. "Here. Harry ? couldn't think 
what ter get teh, but then I remembered this." He pulled out a small, slightly furry drawstring pouch 
with a long string, evidently intended to be worn around the neck. "Mokeskin. Hide anythin' in there an' 
no one but the owner can get it out. They're rare, them."

"Hagrid, thanks!"

     "'S'nothin'," said Hagrid with a wave of a dustbin-lid-sized hand. "An' there's 
Charlie! Always liked him ? hey! Charlie!"

     Charlie approached, running his hand slightly ruefully over his new, 
brutally short haircut. He was shorter than Ron, thickset, with a number of 
burns and scratches up his muscley arms.

"Hi, Hagrid, how's it going?"

"Bin meanin' ter write fer ages. How's Norbert doin'?"

     "Norbert?" Charlie laughed. "The Norwegian Ridgeback? We call herNorberta 


"Oh yeah," said Charlie.

"How can you tell?" asked Hermione.

     "They're a lot more vicious," said Charlie. He looked over his shoulder and dropped 
his voice. "Wish Dad would hurry up and get here. Mum's getting edgy."

     They all looked over at Mrs. Weasley. She was trying to talk to Madame 
Delacour while glancing repeatedly at the gate.

     "I think we'd better start without Arthur," she called to the garden at large after 
a moment or two. "He must have been held up at ? oh!"

     They all saw it at the same time: a streak of light that came flying 
across the yard and onto the table, where it resolved itself into a bright 
silver weasel, which stood on its hind legs and spoke with Mr. Weasley's voice.

"Minister of Magic coming with me."

     The Patronus dissolved into thin air, leaving Fleur's family peering in 
astonishment at the place where it had vanished.

     "We shouldn't be here," said Lupin at once. "Harry ? I'm sorry ? I'll explain 
some other time--"

     He seized Tonks's wrist and pulled her away; they reached the fence, 
climbed over it, and vanished from sight. Mrs. Weasley looked bewildered.

"The Minister ? but why--? I don't understand--"

     But there was no time to discuss the matter; a second later, Mr. Weasley 
had appeared out of thin air at the gate, accompanied by Rufus Scrimgeour, 
instantly recognizable by his mane of grizzled hair.

     The two newcomers marched across the yard toward the garden and the 
lantern-lit table, where everybody sat in silence, watching them draw closer. 
As Scrimgeour came within range of the lantern light. Harry saw that he looked 
much older than the last time that had met, scraggy and grim.

     "Sorry to intrude," said Scrimgeour, as he limped to a halt before the table. 
"Especially as I can see that I am gate-crashing a party."

His eyes lingered for a moment on the giant Snitch cake.

"Many happy returns."

"Thanks," said Harry.

     "I require a private word with you," Scrimgeour went on. "Also with Mr. Ronald 
Weasley and Miss Hermione Granger."

"Us?" said Ron, sounding surprised. "Why us?"

     "I shall tell you that when we are somewhere more private," said Scrimgeour. 
"Is there such a place?' he demanded of Mr. Weasley.

     "Yes, of course," said Mr. Weasley, who looked nervous. "The, er, sitting room, 
why don't you use that?"

     "You can lead the way," Scrimgeour said to Ron. "There will be no need for you 
to accompany us, Arthur."

     Harry saw Mr. Weasley exchange a worried look with Mrs. Weasley as he, 
Ron, and Hermione stood up. As they led the way back to the house in silence, 
Harry knew that the other two were thinking the same as he was; Scrimgeour 
must, somehow, had learned that the three of them were planning to drop out of 

     Scrimgeour did not speak as they all passed through the messed kitchen and 
into the Burrow's sitting room. Although the garden had been full of soft 
golden evening light,

it was already dark in here; Harry flicked his wand at the oil lamps as he 
entered and they illuminated the shabby but cozy room. Scrimgeour sat himself 
in the sagging armchair that Mr. Weasley normally occupied, leaving Harry, Ron, 
and Hermione to squeeze side by side onto the sofa. Once they had done so, 
Scrimgeour spoke.

     "I have some questions for the three of you, and I think it will be best if we do it 
individually. If you two" ? he pointed at Harry and Hermione ? "can wait upstairs, I will 
start with Ronald."

     "We're not going anywhere," said Harry, while Hermione nodded vigorously. "You 
can speak to us together, or not at all."

     Scrimgeour gave Harry a cold, appraising look. Harry had the impression 
that the Minister was wondering whether it was worthwhile opening hostilities 
this early.

     "Very well then, together," he said, shrugging. He cleared his throat. "I am 
here, as I'm sure you know, because of Albus Dumbledore's will."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione looked at one another.

     "A surprise, apparently! You were not aware then that Dumbledore had left you 

"A-all of us?" said Ron, "Me and Hermione too?"

"Yes, all of-"

But Harry interrupted.

     "Dumbledore died over a month ago. Why has it taken this long to give us what 
he left us?"

     "Isn't it obvious?" said Hermione, before Scrimgeour could answer. "They wanted 
to examine whatever he's left us. You had no right to do that!" she said, and her voice 
trembled slightly.

     "I had every right," said Scrimgeour dismissively. "The Decree for Justifiable 
Confiscation gives the Ministry the power the confiscate the contents of a will--"

     "That law was created to stop wizards passing on Dark artifacts," said Hermione, 
"and the Ministry is supposed to have powerful evidence that the deceased's possessions are 
illegal before seizing them! Are you telling me that you thought Dumbledore was trying to pass us 
something cursed?"

     "Are you planning to follow a career in Magical Law, Miss Granger?" asked 

"No, I'm not," retorted Hermione. "I'm hoping to do some good in the world!"

     Ron laughed. Scrimgeour's eyes flickered toward him and away again as 
Harry spoke.

     "So why have you decided to let us have our things now? Can't think of a 
pretext to keep them?"

     "No, it'll be because thirty-one days are up," said Hermione at once. "They 
can't keep the objects longer than that unless they can prove they're dangerous. Right?"

     "Would you say you were close to Dumbledore, Ronald?" asked Scrimgeour, 
ignoring Hermione. Ron looked startled.

"Me? Not ? not really... It was always Harry who..."

     Ron looked around at Harry and Hermione, to see Hermione giving him a 
stop-talking-now! sort of look, but the damage was done; Scrimgeour looked as 
though he had

heard exactly what he had expected, and wanted, to hear. He swooped like a bird 
of prey upon Ron's answer.

     "If you were not very close to Dumbledore, how do you account for the fact that 
he remembered you in his will? He made exceptionally few personal bequests. The vast 
majority of his possessions ? his private library, his magical instruments, and other 
personal effects ? were left to Hogwarts. Why do you think you were singled out?"

     "I...dunno," said Ron. "I...when I say we weren't close..! mean, I think he 
liked me..."

"You're being modest, Ron," said Hermione. "Dumbledore was very fond of you."

     This was stretching the truth to breaking point; as far as Harry knew, Ron 
and Dumbledore had never been alone together, and direct contact between them 
had been negligible. However, Scrimgeour did not seem to be listening. He put 
his hand inside his cloak and drew out a drawstring pouch much larger than the 
one Hagrid had given Harry. From it, he removed a scroll of parchment which he 
unrolled and read aloud.

     "The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore'... 
Yes, here we are... 'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that 
he will remember me when he uses it.'"

     Scrimgeour took from the bag an object that Harry had seen before: It 
looked something like a silver cigarette lighter, but it had, he knew, the 
power to suck all light from a place, and restore it, with a simple click. 
Scrimgeour leaned forward and passed the Deluminator to Ron, who took it and 
turned it over in the fingers looking stunned.

     "That is a valuable object," said Scrimgeour, watching Ron. "It may even be 
unique. Certainly it is of Dumbledore's own design. Why would he have left you and item so 

Ron shook his head, looking bewildered.

     "Dumbledore must have taught thousands of students," Scrimgeour persevered. 
"Yet the only ones he remembered in his will are you three. Why is that? To what use did he 
think you would put to the Deluminator, Mr. Weasley?"

"Put out lights, I s'pose," mumbled Ron. "What else could I do with it?"

     Evidently Scrimgeour had no suggestions. After squinting at Ron for a 
moment or tow, he turned back to Dumbledore's will.

     "To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of The Tales of Beedle the 
Bard, in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"

     Scrimgeour now pulled out of the bag a small book that looked as ancient 
as the copy of Secrets of the Darkest Art upstairs. Its binding was stained and 
peeling in places. Hermione took it from Scrimgeour without a word. She held 
the book in her lap and gazed at it. Harry saw that the title was in runes; he 
had never learned to read them. As he looked, a tear splashed onto the embossed 

     "Why do you think Dumbledore left you that book, Miss Granger?" asked 

     "He... he knew I liked books," said Hermione in a thick voice, mopping her 
eyes with her sleeve.

"But why that particular book?"

"I don't know. He must have thought I'd enjoy it."

     "Did you ever discuss codes, or any means of passing secret messages, with 

     "No, I didn't," said Hermione, still wiping her eyes on her sleeve. "And if the 
Ministry hasn't found any hidden codes in this book in thirty-one days, I doubt that I will."

     She suppressed a sob. They were wedged together so tightly that Ron had 
difficulty extracting his arm to put it around Hermione's shoulders. Scrimgeour 
turned back to the will.

     "To Harry James Potter,'" he read, and Harry's insides contracted with a sudden 
excitement, '"I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a 
reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill.'"

     As Scrimgeour pulled out the tiny, walnut-sized golden ball, its silver 
wings fluttered rather feebly, and Harry could not help feeling a definite 
sense of anticlimax.

"Why did Dumbledore leave you this Snitch?" asked Scrimgeour.

     "No idea," said Harry. "For the reasons you just read out, I suppose... to 
remind me what you can get if you... persevere and whatever it was."

"You think this a mere symbolic keepsake, then?"

"I suppose so," said Harry. "What else could it be?"

     "I'm asking the questions," said Scrimgeour, shifting his chair a little 
closer to the sofa. Dusk was really falling outside now; the marquee beyond the windows 
towered ghostly white over the hedge.

     "I notice that your birthday cake is in the shape of a Snitch," Scrimgeour said to 
Harry. "Why is that?"

Hermione laughed derisively.

     "Oh, it can't be a reference to the fact Harry's a great Seeker, that's way too 
obvious," she said. "There must be a secret message from Dumbledore hidden in the 

     "I don't think there's anything hidden in the icing," said Scrimgeour, "but a 
Snitch would be a very good hiding place for a small object. You know why, I'm sure?"

     Harry shrugged, Hermione, however, answered: Harry thought that answering 
questions correctly was such a deeply ingrained habit she could not suppress 
the urge.

"Because Snitches have flesh memories," she said.

     "What?" said Harry and Ron together; both considered Hermione's Quidditch 
knowledge negligible.

     "Correct," said Scrimgeour. "A Snitch is not touched by bare skin before it is 
released, not even by the maker, who wears gloves. It carries an enchantment by which it can identify 
the first human to lay hands upon it, in case of a disputed capture. This Snitch" ? he held up the 
tiny golden ball ? "will remember your touch, Potter.

     It occurs to me that Dumbledore, who had prodigious magical skill, whatever his 
other faults, might have enchanted this Snitch so that it will open only for 

     Harry's heart was beating rather fast. He was sure that Scrimgeour was 
right. How could he avoid taking the Snitch with his bare hand in front of the 

     "You don't say anything," said Scrimgeour. "Perhaps you already know what the 
Snitch contains?"

     "No," said Harry, still wondering how he could appear to touch the Snitch 
without really doing so. If only he knew Legilimency, really knew it, and could read 
Hermione's mind; he could practically hear her brain whizzing beside him.

"Take it," said Scrimgeour quietly.

     Harry met the Minister's yellow eyes and knew he had no option but to 
obey. He held out his hand, and Scrimgeour leaned forward again and place the 
Snitch, slowly and deliberately, into Harry's palm.

     Nothing happened. As Harry's fingers closed around the Snitch, its tired 
wings fluttered and were still. Scrimgeour, Ron, and Hermione continued to gaze 
avidly at the now partially concealed ball, as if still hoping it might 
transform in some way.

"That was dramatic," said Harry coolly. Both Ron and Hermione laughed.

"That's all, then, is it?" asked Hermione, making to raise herself off the sofa.

     "Not quite," said Scrimgeour, who looked bad tempered now. "Dumbledore left you 
a second bequest, Potter."

"What is it?" asked Harry, excitement rekindling.

Scrimgeour did not bother to read from the will this time.

     "The sword of Godric Gryffindor," he said. Hermione and Ron both 
stiffened. Harry looked around for a sign of the ruby-encrusted hilt, but Scrimgeour did 
not pull the sword from the leather pouch, which in any case looked much too small to 
contain it.

"So where is it?" Harry asked suspiciously.

     "Unfortunately," said Scrimgeour, "that sword was not Dumbledore's to give 
away. The sword of Godric Gryffindor is an important historical artifact, and as such, 

     "It belongs to Harry!" said Hermione hotly. "It chose him, he was the one who 
found it, it came to him out of the Sorting Hat--"

     "According to reliable historical sources, the sword may present itself to any worthy 
Gryffindor," said Scrimgeour. "That does not make it the exclusive property of Mr. Potter, whatever 
Dumbledore may have decided." Scrimgeour scratched his badly shaven cheek, scrutinizing Harry. "Why 
do you think--?"

     "--Dumbledore wanted to give me the sword?" said Harry, struggling to keep his 
temper. "Maybe he thought it would look nice on my wall."

     "This is not a joke, Potter!" growled Scrimgeour. "Was it because Dumbledore 
believed that only the sword of Godric Gryffindor could defeat the Heir of Slytherin? Did he wish 
to give you that sword, Potter, because he believed, as do many, that you are the one destined to 
destroy He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?"

     "Interesting theory," said Harry. "Has anyone ever tried sticking a sword in 
Voldemort? Maybe the Ministry should put some people onto that, instead of wasting their time 
stripping down Deluminators or covering up breakouts from Azkaban. So this is what you've been 
doing, Minister, shut up in your office, trying to break open a Snitch? People are dying -1 was 
nearly one of them - Voldemort chased me across three countries, he killed Mad-Eye Moody, but 
there's no word about any of that from the Ministry, has there? And you still expect us to 
cooperate with you!"

     "You go too far!" shouted Scrimgeour, standing up: Harry jumped to his 
feet too. Scrimgeour limped toward Harry and jabbed him hard in the chest with the point 
of his wand; It singed a hole in Harry's T-shirt like a lit cigarette.

"Oi!" said Ron, jumping up and raising his own wand, but Harry said,

"No! D'you want to give him an excuse to arrest us?"

     "Remembered you're not at school, have you?" said Scrimgeour breathing hard 
into Harry's face. "Remembered that I am not Dumbledore, who forgave your insolence

and insubordination? You may wear that scar like a crown, Potter, but it is not up 
to a seventeen-year-old boy to tell me how to do my job! It's time you learned some 

"It's time you earned it." said Harry.

     The floor trembled; there was a sound of running footsteps, then the door 
to the sitting room burst open and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley ran in.

     "We ? we thought we heard ?" began Mr. Weasley, looking thoroughly alarmed 
at the sight of Harry and the Minister virtually nose to nose.

"?raised voices," panted Mrs. Weasley.

     Scrimgeour took a couple of steps back from Harry, glancing at the hole he 
had made in Harry's T-shirt. He seemed to regret his loss of temper.

     "It - it was nothing," he growled. "I ... regret your attitude," he said, looking 
Harry full in the face once more. "You seem to think that the Ministry does not desire what you - what 
Dumbledore - desired. We ought to work together."

"I don't like your methods, Minister," said Harry. "Remember?"

     For the second time, he raised his right fist and displayed to Scrimgeour the scar 
that still showed white on the back of it, spelling / must not tell lies . Scrimgeour's 
expression hardened. He turned away without another word and limped from the room. Mrs. 
Weasley hurried after him; Harry heard her stop at the back door. After a minute or so 
she called, "He's gone!"

     What did he want?" Mr. Weasley asked, looking around at Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione as Mrs. Weasley came hurrying back to them.

     "To give us what Dumbledore left us," said Harry. "They've only just released 
the content of his will."

     Outside in the garden, over the dinner tables, the three objects Scrimgeour had 
given them were passed from hand to hand. Everyone exclaimed over the Deluminator and The 
Tales ofBeedle the Bard and lamented the fact that Scrimgeour had refused to pass on the 
sword, but none of them could offer any suggestion as to why Dumbledore would have left 
Harry an old Snitch. As Mr. Weasley examined the Deluminator for the third of fourth 
time, Mrs. Weasley said tentatively, "Harry, dear, everyone's awfully hungry we 
didn't like to start without you... Shall I serve dinner now?"

     They all ate rather hurriedly and then after a hasty chorus of "Happy 
Birthday" and much gulping of cake, the party broke up. Hagrid, who was invited to 
the wedding the following day, but was far too bulky to sleep in the overstretched 
Burrow, left to set up a tent for himself in a neighboring field.

     "Meet us upstairs," Harry whispered to Hermione, while they helped Mrs. Weasley 
restore the garden to its normal state. "After everyone's gone to bed."

     Up in the attic room, Ron examined his Deluminator, and Harry filled 
Hagrid's mokeskin purse, not with gold, but with those items he most prized, 
apparently worthless though some of them were the Marauder's Map, the shard of 
Sirius's enchanted mirror, and R.A.B.'s locket. He pulled the string tight and 
slipped the purse around his neck, then sat holding the old Snitch and watching 
its wings flutter feebly. At last, Hermione tapped on the door and tiptoed 

"Muffiato," she whispered, waving her wand in the direction of the stairs.

"Thought you didn't approve of that spell?" said Ron.

"Times change," said Hermione. "Now, show us that Deluminator."

     Ron obliged at once. Holding I up in front of him, he clicked it. The 
solitary lamp they had lit went out at once.

     "The thing is," whispered Hermione through the dark, "we could have achieved 
that with Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder."

     There was a small click, and the ball of light from the lamp flew back to 
the ceiling and illuminated them all once more.

     "Still, it's cool," said Ron, a little defensively. "And from what they said, 
Dumbledore invented it himself!"

     "I know but, surely he wouldn't have singled you out in his will just to help 
us turn out the lights!"

     "D'you think he knew the Ministry would confiscate his will and examine 
everything he'd left us?" asked Harry.

     "Definitely," said Hermione. "He couldn't tell us in the will why he was 
leaving us these things, but that will doesn't explain..."

"... why he couldn't have given us a hint when he was alive?" asked Ron.

     "Well, exactly," said Hermione, now flicking through The Tales ofBeedle the Bard. 
"If these things are important enough to pass on right under the nose of the Ministry, you'd 
think he'd have left us know why... unless he thought it was obvious?"

     "Thought wrong, then, didn't he?" said Ron. "I always said he was mental. 
Brilliant and everything, but cracked. Leaving Harry an old Snitch - what the hell was that 

     "I've no idea," said Hermione. "When Scrimgeour made you take it, Harry, I was 
so sure that something was going to happen!"

     "Yeah, well," said Harry, his pulse quickened as he raised the Snitch in his 
fingers. "I wasn't going to try too hard in front of Scrimgeour was I?"

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione.

     "The Snitch I caught in my first ever Quidditch match?" said Harry. "Don't you 

     Hermione looked simply bemused. Ron, however, gasped, pointing frantically 
from Harry to the Snitch and back again until he found his voice.

"That was the one you nearly swallowed!"

     "Exactly," said Harry, and with his heart beating fast, he pressed his 
mouth to the Snitch.

     It did not open. Frustration and bitter disappointment welled up inside 
him: He lowered the golden sphere, but then Hermione cried out.

     "Writing! There's writing on it, quick, look!" He nearly dropped the 
Snitch in surprise and excitement. Hermione was quite right. Engraved upon the smooth 
golden surface, where seconds before there had been nothing, were five words written in 
the thin, slanted handwriting that Harry recognized as Dumbledore's

/ open at the close.

He had barely read them when the words vanished again.

"I open at the close...." What's that supposed to mean?"

Hermione and Ron shook their heads, looking blank.

"I open at the close... at the close... I open at the close..."

     But no matter how often they repeated the words, with many different 
inflections, they were unable to wring any more meaning from them.

     "And the sword," said Ron finally, when they had at last abandoned their 
attempts to divine meaning in the Snitch's inscription.

"Why did he want Harry to have the sword?"

     "And why couldn't he just have told me?" Harry said quietly. "I was there, it 
was right there on the wall of his office during all our talks last year! If he wanted me to have 
it, why didn't he just give it to me then?"

     He felt as thought he were sitting in an examination with a question he 
ought to have been able to answer in front of him, his brain slow and 
unresponsive. Was there something he had missed in the long talks with 
Dumbledore last year? Ought he to know what it all meant? Had Dumbledore 
expected him to understand?

     "And as for this book." Said Hermione, "The Tales ofBeedle the Bard ... I've 
never even heard of them!"

     "You've never heard of The Tales ofBeedle the Bardl" said Ron incredulously. 
"You're kidding, right?"

     "No, I'm not," said Hermione in surprise. "Do you know them then?" "Well, of 
course I do!"

     Harry looked up, diverted. The circumstance of Ron having read a book that 
Hermione had not was unprecedented. Ron, however, looked bemused by their 

     "Oh come on! All the old kids' stories are supposed to be Beedle's aren't they? 
'The Fountain of Fair Fortune' ... 'The Wizard and the Hopping Pot'... 'Babbitty Rabbitty 
and her Cackling Stump'..."

"Excuse me?" said Hermione giggling. "What was the last one?"

     "Come off it!" said Ron, looking in disbelief from Harry to Hermione. "You 
must've heard of Babbitty Rabbitty -"

     "Ron, you know full well Harry and I were brought up by Muggles!" said Hermione. 
"We didn't hear stories like that when we were little, we heard 'Snow White and the Seven 
Dwarves' and 'Cinderella' -"

"What's that, an illness?" asked Ron.

"So these are children's stories?" asked Hermione, bending against over the 

     "Yeah." Said Ron uncertainly. "I mean, just what you hear, you know, that all 
these old stories came from Beedle. I dunno what they're like in the original versions."

"But I wonder why Dumbledore thought I should read them?"

Something cracked downstairs.

     "Probably just Charlie, now Mum's asleep, sneaking off to regrow his 
hair," said Ron nervously.

     "All the same, we should get to bed," whispered Hermione. "It wouldn't do to 
oversleep tomorrow."

     "No," agreed Ron. "A brutal triple murder by the bridegroom's mother might put 
a bit of damper on the wedding. I'll get the light."

And he clicked the Deluminator once more as Hermione left the room.

Chapter Eight The Wedding

     Three o'clock on the following afternoon found Harry, Ron, Fred and George standing 
outside the great white marquee in the orchard, awaiting the arrival of the wedding 
guests. Harry had taken a large dose of Polyjuice Potion and was now the double of a 
redheaded Muggle boy from the local village, Ottery St. Catchpole, from whom Fred had 
stolen hairs using a Summoning Charm. The plan was to introduce Harry as "Cousin 
Barny" and trust to the great number of Weasley relatives to camouflage him.

     All four of them were clutching seating plans, so that they could help 
show people to the right seats. A host of white-robed waiters had arrived an 
hour earlier, along with a golden jacketed band, and all of these wizards were 
currently sitting a short distance away under a tree. Harry could see a blue 
haze of pipe smoke issuing from the spot. Behind Harry, the entrance to the 
marquee revealed rows and rows of fragile golden chairs set on either side of a 
long purple carpet. The supporting poles were entwined with white and gold 
flowers. Fred and George had fastened an enormous bunch of golden balloons over 
the exact point where Bill and Fleur would shortly become husband and wife. 
Outside, butterflies and bees were hovering lazily over the grass and hedgerow. 
Harry was rather uncomfortable. The Muggle boy whose appearance he was 
affecting was slightly fatter than him and his dress robes felt hot and tight 
in the full glare of a summer's day.

     "When I get married," said Fred, tugging at the collar of his own robes, "I 
won't be bothering with any of this nonsense. You can all wear what you like, and I'll put a full 
Body Bird Curse on Mum until it's all over."

     "She wasn't too bad this morning, considering," said George. "Cried a bit about 
Percy not being here, but who wants him. Oh blimey, brace yourselves, here they come, look."

     Brightly colored figures were appearing, one by one out of nowhere at the 
distant boundary of the yard. Within minutes a procession had formed, which 
began to snake its way up through the garden toward the marquee. Exotic flowers 
and bewitched birds fluttered on the witches' hats, while precious gems 
glittered from many of the wizards' cravats; a hum of excited chatter grew 
louder and louder, drowning the sound of the bees as the crowd approached the 

     "Excellent, I think I see a few veela cousins," said George, craning his neck for a 
better look. "They'll need help understanding our English customs, I'll look after 

     "Not so fast, Your Holeyness," said Fred, and darting past the gaggle of middle-aged 
witches heading for the procession, he said, "Here -permetiez moi to assister vous" to a 
pair of pretty French girls, who giggled and allowed him to escort them inside. George was left to 
deal with the middle-aged witches and Ron took charge of Mr. Weasley's old Ministry-colleague 
Perkins, while a rather deaf old couple fell to Harry's lot.

     "Wotcher," said a familiar voice as he came out of the marquee again and found Tonks 
and Lupin at the front of the queue.  She had turned blonde for the occasion. "Arthur told us 
you were the one with the curly hair. Sorry about last night," she added

in a whisper as Harry led them up the aisle. "The Ministry' s being very 
anti-werewolf at the museum and we thought our presence might not do you any favors."

     "It's fine, I understand," said Harry, speaking more to Lupin than Tonks. 
Lupin gave him a swift smile, but as they turned away Harry saw Lupin's face fall again 
into lines of misery. He did not understand it, but there was no time to dwell on the 
matter. Hagrid was causing a certain amount of disruption. Having misunderstood Fred's 
directions as he had sat himself, not upon the magically enlarged and reinforced seat set 
aside for him in the back row, but on five sets that now resembled a large pile of golden 

     While Mr. Weasley repaired the damage and Hagrid shouted apologies to 
anybody who would listen, Harry hurried back to the entrance to find Ron 
face-to-face with a most eccentric-looking wizard.  Slightly cross-eyed, with 
shoulder-length white hair the texture of candyfloss, he wore a cap whose 
tassel dangled in front of his nose and robes of an eye-watering shade of 
egg-yolk yellow. An odd symbol, rather like a triangular eye, glistened from a 
golden chain around his neck.

     "Xenophilius Lovegood," he said, extending a hand to Harry, "my daughter and I 
live just over the hill, so kind of the good Weasleys to invite us. But I think you know my 
Luna?" he added to Ron.

"Yes," said Ron. "Isn't she with you?"

     "She lingered in that charming little garden to say hello to the gnomes, such a 
glorious infestation! How few wizards realize just how much we can learn from the wise 
little gnomes - or, to give them their correct name, the Gernumbli gardensi."

     "Ours do know a lot of excellent swear words," said Ron, "but I think Fred and 
George taught them those."

He led a party of warlocks into the marquee as Luna rushed up.

"Hello, Harry!" she said.

"Er - my name's Barry," said Harry, flummoxed.

"Oh, have you changed that too?" she asked brightly.

"How did you know -?"

"Oh, just your expression," she said.

     Like her father, Luna was wearing bright yellow robes, which she had 
accessorized with a large sunflower in her hair. Once you get over the 
brightness of it all, the general effect was quite pleasant. At least there 
were no radishes dangling from her ears.

     Xenophilius, who was deep in conversation with an acquaintance, had missed the 
exchange between Luna and Harry. Biding the wizard farewell, he turned to his daughter, 
who held up her finger and said, "Daddy, look - one of the gnomes actually bit 

     "How wonderful! Gnome saliva is enormously beneficial." Said Mr. Lovegood, seizing 
Luna's outstretched fingers and examining the bleeding puncture marks. "Luna, my love, if you 
should feel any burgeoning talent today - perhaps an unexpected urge to sing opera or to declaims 
in Mermish - do not repress it! You may have been gifted by the Gernumblies!"

Ron, passing them in the opposite direction let out a loud snort.

     "Ron can laugh," said Luna serenely as Harry led her and Xenophilius toward their 
seats, "but my father has done a lot of research on Gernumbli magic."

     "Really?" said Harry, who had long since decided not to challenge Luna or her 
father's peculiar views. "Are you sure you don't want to put anything on that bite, 

     "Oh, it's fine," said Luna, sucking her finger in a dreamy fashion and looking Harry 
up and down. "You look smart. I told Daddy most people would probably wear dress robes, but he 
believes you ought to wear sun colors to a wedding, for luck, you know."

     As she drifted off after her father, Ron reappeared with an elderly witch 
clutching his arm. Her beaky nose, red-rimmed eyes, and leathery pink hat gave 
her the look of a bad-tempered flamingo.

     "... and your hair's much too long, Ronald, for a moment I thought you were 
Ginevra. Merlin's beard, what is Xenophilius Lovegood wearing? He looks like an omelet. 
And who are you?" she barked at Harry.

"Oh yeah, Auntie Muriel, this is our cousin Barny."

     "Another Weasley? You breed like gnomes. Isn't Harry Potter here? I was hoping 
to meet him. I thought he was a friend of yours, Ronald, or have you merely been 

"No - he couldn't come -"

     "Hmm. Made an excuse, did he? Not as gormless as he looks in press photographs, then. 
I've just been instructing the bride on how best to wear my tiara," she shouted at Harry. 
"Goblin-made, you know, and been in my family for centuries.  She's a good-looking girl, but 
still - French. Well, well, find me a good seat, Ronald, I am a hundred and seven and I ought not 
to be on my feet too long."

     Ron gave Harry a meaningful look as he passed and did not reappear for 
some time. When next they met at the entrance, Harry had shown a dozen more 
people to their places. The Marquee was nearly full now and for the first time 
there was no queue outside.

     "Nightmare, Muriel is," said Ron, mopping his forehead on his sleeve. "She used to come 
for Christmas every year, then, thank God, she took offense because Fred and George set off a Dungbomb under 
her chair at diner. Dad always says she'll have written them out of her will - like they care, they're going 
to end up richer than anyone in the family, rate they're going... Wow," he added, blinking rather 
rapidly as Hermione came hurrying toward them. "You look great!"

     "Always the tone of surprise," said Hermione, though she smiled. She was wearing a 
floaty, lilac-colored dress with matching high heels; her hair was sleek and shiny. "Your 
Great-Aunt Muriel doesn't agree, I just met her upstairs while she was giving Fleur the tiara. She 
said, 'Oh dear, is this the Muggle-born?' and then, 'Bad posture and skinny ankles.'"

"Don't take it personally, she's rude to everyone," said Ron.

     "Talking about Muriel?" inquired George, reemerging from the marquee with Fred. 
"Yeah, she's just told me my ears are lopsided. Old bat. I wish old Uncle Bilius was still 
with us, though; he was a right laugh at weddings."

     "Wasn't he the one who saw a Grim and died twenty-four hours later?" asked 

"Well, yeah, he went a bit odd toward the end," conceded George.

     "But before he went loopy he was the life and soul of the party," said Fred. 
"He used to down an entire bottle of firewhisky, then run onto the dance floor, hoist up his 
robes, and start pulling bunches of flowers out of his -"

"Yes, he sounds a real charmer," said Hermione, while Harry roared with 

"Never married, for some reason," said Ron.

"You amaze me," said Hermione.

     They were all laughing so much that none of them noticed the latecomer, a 
dark-haired young man with a large, curved nose and thick black eyebrows, until he held 
out his invitation to Ron and said, with his eyes on Hermione, "You look 

     "Viktor!" she shrieked, and dropped her small beaded bag, which made a loud thump 
quite disproportionate to its size. As she scrambled, blushing, to pick it up, she said "I 
didn't know you were - goodness - it's lovely to see - how are you?"

     Ron's ears had turned bright red again. After glancing at Krum's invitation as if he 
did not believe a word of it, he said, much too loudly, "how come you're here?"

"Fleur invited me," said Krum, eyebrows raised.

     Harry, who had no grudge against Krum, shook hands; then feeling that it 
would be prudent to remove Krum from Ron's vicinity, offered to show him his 

     "Your friend is not pleased to see me," said Krum, as they entered the now packed 
marquee. "Or is he a relative?" he added with a glance at Harry's red curly hair.

     "Cousin." Harry muttered, but Krum was not really listening. His 
appearance was causing a stir, particularly amongst the veela cousins: He was, after all, 
a famous Quidditch player. While people were still craning their necks to get a good look 
at him, Ron, Hermione, Fred, and George came hurrying down the aisle.

     "Time to sit down," Fred told Harry, "or we're going to get run over by the 

     Harry, Ron and Hermione took their seats in the second row behind Fred and George. 
Hermione looked rather pink and Ron's ears were still scarlet. After a few moments he 
muttered to Harry, "Did you see he's grown a stupid little beard?"

Harry gave a noncommittal grunt.

     A sense of jittery anticipation had filled the warm tent, the general 
murmuring broken by occasional spurts of excited laughter. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley 
strolled up the aisle, smiling and waving at relatives; Mrs. Weasley was 
wearing a brand-new set of amethyst colored robes with a matching hat.

     A moment later Bill and Charlie stood up at the front of the marquee, both 
wearing dress robes, with larger white roses in their buttonholes; Fred 
wolf-whistled and there was an outbreak of giggling from the veela cousins. 
Then the crowd fell silent as music swelled from what seemed to be the golden 

"Ooooh!" said Hermione, swiveling around in her seat to look at the entrance.

     A great collective sigh issued from the assembled witches and wizards as 
Monsieur Delacour and Fleur came walking up the aisle, Fleur gliding, Monsieur 
Delacour bouncing and beaming. Fleur was wearing a very simple white dress and 
seemed to be emitting a strong, silvery glow. While her radiance usually dimmed 
everyone else by comparison, today it beautified everybody it fell upon. Ginny 
and Gabrielle, both wearing golden dresses, looked even prettier than usual and 
once Fleur had reached for him, Bill did not look as though he had ever met 
Fenrit Greyback.

     "Ladies and gentlemen," said a slightly singsong voice, and with a slight shock, 
Harry saw the same small, tufty-hired wizard who had presided at Dumbledore's funeral, now standing 
in front of Bill and Fleur. "We are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful 

     "Yes, my tiara set off the whole thing nicely," said Auntie Muriel in a rather 
carrying whisper. "But I must say, Ginevra's dress is far too low cut."

     Ginny glanced around, grinning, winked at Harry, then quickly faced the 
front again. Harry's mind wandered a long way from the marquee, back to the 
afternoons spent alone with Ginny in lonely parts of the school grounds. They 
seemed so long ago; they had always seemed too good to be true, as though he 
had been stealing shining hours from a normal person's life, a person without a 
lightning-shaped scar on his forehead....

"Do you, William Arthur, take Fleur Isabelle...?"

     In the front row, Mrs. Weasley and Madame Delacour were both sobbing 
quietly into scraps of lace. Trumpetlike sounds from the back of the marquee 
told everyone that Hagrid had taken out one of his own tablecloth-sized 
handkerchiefs. Hermione turned around and beamed at Harry; her eyes too were 
full of tears.

".. .then I declare you bonded for life."

     The tufty-haired wizard waved his hand high over the heads of Bill and 
Fleur and a shower of silver stars fell upon them, spiraling around their now 
entwined figures. As Fred and George led a round of applause, the golden 
balloons overhead burst. Birds of paradise and tiny golden bells flew and 
floated out of them, adding their songs and chimes to the din.

     "Ladies and gentlemen!" called the tufty-haired wizard. "If you would please 
stand up!"

     They all did so, Auntie Muriel grumbling audibly; he waved his wand again. 
The scars on which they had been sitting rose gracefully into the air as the 
canvas walls of the marquee vanished, so that they stood beneath a canopy 
supported by golden poles, with a glorious view of the sunlit orchard and 
surrounding countryside. Next, a pool of molten gold spread from the center of 
the tent to form a gleaming dance floor; the hovering chairs grouped themselves 
around small, white-clothed tables, which all floated gracefully back to earth 
round it, and the golden-jacketed hand trooped toward a podium.

     "Smooth," said Ron approvingly as the waiters popped up on all sides, some 
hearing silver trays of pumpkin juice, butterbeer, and firewhisky, others tottering piles 
of tarts and sandwiches.

     "We should go and congratulate them!" said Hermione, standing on tiptoe to 
see the place where Bill and Fleur had vanished amid a crowd of well-wishers.

     "We'll have time later," shrugged Ron, snatching three butterbeers from a passing 
tray and handing one to Harry. "Hermione, cop hold, let's grab a table.... Not there! Nowhere 
near Muriel -"

     Ron led the way across the empty dance floor, glancing left and right as 
he went; Harry felt sure that he was keeping an eye out for Krum. By the time 
they had reached the other side of the marquee, most of the tables were 
occupied: The emptiest was the one where Luna sat alone.

"All right if we join you?" asked Ron.

     "Oh yes," she said happily. "Daddy's just gone to give Bill and Fleur our 

"What is it, a lifetime's supply of Gurdyroots?" asked Ron.

     Hermione aimed a kick at him under the table, but caught Harry instead. 
Eyes watering in pain, Harry lost track of the conversation for a few moments.

     The band had begun to play, Bill and Fleur took to the dance floor first, 
to great applause; after a while, Mr. Weasley led Madame Delacour onto the 
floor, followed by Mr. Weasley and Fleur's father.

     "I like this song," said Luna, swaying in time to the waltzlike tune, and 
a few seconds later she stood up and glided onto the dance floor, where she revolved on 
the spot, quite alone, eyes closed and waving her arms.

"She's great isn't she?" said Ron admiringly. "Always good value."

     But the smile vanished from his face at once: Viktor Krum had dropped into Luna's 
vacant seat. Hermione looked pleasurably flustered but this time Krum had not come to 
compliment her. With a scowl on his face he said, "Who is that man in the 

     "That's Xenophilius Lovegood, he's the father of a friend of ours," said Ron. His 
pugnacious tone indicated that they were not about to laugh at Xenophilius, despite the clear 
provocation. "Come and dance," he added abruptly to Hermione.

     She looked taken aback, but pleased too, and got up. They vanished 
together into the growing throng on the dance floor.

"Ah, they are together now?" asked Krum, momentarily distracted.

"Er - sort of," said Harry.

"Who are you?" Krum asked.

"Barny Weasley."

They shook hands.

"You, Barny - you know this man Lovegood well?"

"No, I only met him today. Why?"

     Krum glowered over the top of his drink, watching Xenophilius, who was 
chatting to several warlocks on the other side of the dance floor.

     "Because," said Krum, "If he vus not a guest of Fleur's I vould dud him, here 
and now, for veering that filthy sign upon his chest."

     "Sign?" said Harry, looking over at Xenophilius too. The strange triangular eye was 
gleaming on his chest. "Why? What's wrong with it?"

"Grindelvald. That is Grindelvald's sign."

"Grindelwald... the Dark wizard Dumbledore defeated?"


     Krum's jaw muscles worked as if he were chewing, then he said, "Grindelvald killed many 
people, my grandfather, for instance. Of course, he vos never powerful in this country, they said 
he feared Dumbledore - and rightly, seeing how he vos finished. But this" - he pointed a 
finger at Xenophilius - "this is his symbol, I recognized it at vunce: Grindelvald carved it 
into a vail at Durmstrang ver he vos a pupil there. Some idiots copied it onto their books and 
clothes thinking to shock, make themselves impressive - until those of us who had lost family 
members to Grindelvald taught them better."

     Krum cracked his knuckles menacingly and glowered at Xenophilius. Harry 
felt perplexed. It seemed incredibly unlikely that Luna's father was a 
supporter of the Dark Arts, and nobody else in the tent seemed to have 
recognized the triangular, finlike shape.

"Are you - er - quite sure it's Grindelwald's -?"

     "I am not mistaken," said Krum coldly. "I walked past that sign for several 
years, I know it veil."

     "Well, there's a chance," said Harry, "that Xenophilius doesn't actually know 
what the symbol means, the Lovegoods are quite... unusual. He could have easily picked it up 
somewhere and think it's a cross section of the head of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack or 

"The cross section of a vot?"

     "Well, I don't know what they are, but apparently he and his daughter go on 
holiday looking for them...."

Harry felt he was doing a bad job explaining Luna and her father.

     "That's her," he said, pointing at Luna, who was still dancing alone, 
waving her arms around her head like someone attempting to beat off midges.

"Vy is she doing that?" asked Krum.

     "Probably trying to get rid of a Wrackspurt," said Harry, who recognized 
the symptoms.

     Krum did not seem to know whether or not Harry was making fun of him. He 
drew his hand from inside his robe and tapped it menacingly on his thighs; 
sparks flew out of the end.

     "Gregorovitch!" said Harry loudly, and Krum started, but Harry was too 
excited to care; the memory had come back to him at the sight of Krum's wand: Ollivander 
taking it and examining it carefully before the Triwizard Tournament.

"Vot about him?" asked Krum suspiciously.

"He's a wandmaker!"

"I know that," said Krum.

"He made your wand! That's why I thought - Quidditch -"

Krum was looking more and more suspicious.

"How do you know Gregorovitch made my wand?"

     "I.. I read it somewhere, I think," said Harry. "In a - a fan magazine," 
he improvised wildly and Krum looked mollified.

"I had not realized I ever discussed my vand with fans," he said.

"So... er... where is Gregorowitch these days?"

Krum looked puzzled.

     "He retired several years ago. I was one of the last to purchase a Gregorovitch 
vand. They are the best -although I know, of course, that your Britons set much store by 

     Harry did not answer. He pretended to watch the dancers, like Krum, but he 
was thinking hard.  So Voldemort was looking for a celebrated wandmaker and 
Harry did not have to search far for a reason. It was surely because of what 
Harry' wand had done on the night that Voldemort pursued him across the skies. 
The holly and phoenix feather wand had conquered the borrowed wand, some thing 
that Ollivander had not anticipated or understood. Would Gregorowitch know 
better? Was he truly more skilled than Ollivander, did he know secrets of wands 
that Ollivander did not?

     "This girl is very nice-looking," Krum said, recalling Harry to his surroundings. 
Krum was pointing at Ginny, who had just joined Luna. "She is also a relative of yours?"

     "Yeah," said Harry, suddenly irritated, "and she's seeing someone. Jealous 
type. Big bloke. You wouldn't want to cross him."

Krum grunted.

     "Vot," he said, draining his goblet and getting to his feet again, "is the 
point of being an international Quidditch player if all the good-looking girls are taken?"

     And he strode off leaving Harry to take a sandwich from a passing waiter 
and make his way around the edge of the crowded dance floor. He wanted to find 
Ron, to tell him about Gregorovitch, but he was dancing with Hermione out in 
the middle of the floor. Harry leaned up against one of the golden pillars and 
watched Ginny, who was now dancing with Fred and George's friend Lee Jordan, 
trying not to feel resentful about the promise he had given Ron.

     He had never been to a wedding before, so he could not judge how Wizarding 
celebrations differed from Muggle ones, though he was pretty sure that the latter would 
not involve a wedding cake topped with two model phoenixes that took flight when the cake 
was cut, or bottles of champagne that floated unsupported through the crowd. As the 
evening drew in, and moths began to swoop under the canopy, now lit with floating golden 
lanterns, the revelry became more and more uncontained. Fred and George had long since 
disappeared into the darkness with a pair of Fleur's cousins; Charlie, Hagrid, and a 
squat wizard in a purple porkpie hat were singing "Odo the Hero" in the corner.

     Wandering through the crowd so as to escape a drunken uncle of Ron's who 
seemed unsure whether or not Harry was his son, Harry spotted an old wizard 
sitting alone at a table. His cloud of white hair made him look rather like an 
aged dandelion clock and was topped by a moth-eaten fez. He was vaguely 
familiar: Racking his brains, Harry suddenly realized that this was Elphias 
Doge, member of the Order of the Phoenix and the writer of Dumbledore's 

Harry approached him.

"May I sit down?"

"Of course, of course," said Doge; he had a rather high-pitched, wheezy voice.

Harry leaned in.

"Mr. Doge, I'm Harry Potter."

Doge gasped.

     "My dear boy! Arthur told me you were here, disguised.... I am so glad, so 

In a flutter of nervous pleasure Doge poured Harry a goblet of champagne.

     "I thought of writing to you," he whispered, "after Dumbledore... the shock... 
and for you, I am sure..."

Doge's tiny eyes filled with sudden tears.

     "I saw the obituary you wrote for the Daily Prophet" said Harry. "I didn't 
realize you knew Professor Dumbledore so well."

     "As well as anyone," said Doge, dabbing his eyes with a napkin. "Certainly I 
knew him longest, if you don't count Aberforth - and somehow, people never do seem to count 

"Speaking of the Daily Prophet... I don't know whether you saw, Mr. Doge -?"

"Oh, please call me Elphias, dear boy."

     "Elphias, I don't know whether you saw the interview Rita Skeeter gave about 

Doge's face flooded with angry color.

     "Oh yes, Harry, I saw it. That woman, or vulture might be a more accurate term, 
positively pestered me to talk to her, I am ashamed to say that I became rather rude, 
called her an interfering trout, which resulted, as you my have seen, in aspersions cast 
upon my sanity."

     "Well, in that interview," Harry went on, "Rita Skeeter hinted that Professor 
Dumbledore was involved in the Dark Arts when he was young."

     "Don't believe a word of it!" said Doge at once. "Not a word, Harry! Let 
nothing tarnish your memories of Albus Dumbledore!"

     Harry looked into Doge's earnest, pained face, and felt, not reassured, but 
frustrated. Did Doge really think it was that easy, that Harry could simply choose 
not to believe? Didn't Doge understand Harry's need to be sure, to know 

     Perhaps Doge suspected Harry's feelings, for he looked concerned and hurried on, 
"Harry, Rita Skeeter is a dreadful -"

But he was interrupted by a shrill cackle.

"Rita Skeeter? Oh, I love her, always read her!"

     Harry and Doge looked up to see Auntie Muriel standing there, the plumes dancing on 
her hair, a goblet of champagne in her hand. "She's written a book about Dumbledore, 
you know!"

"Hello, Muriel," said Doge, "Yes, we were just discussing -"

"You there! Give me your chair, I'm a hundred and seven!"

     Another redheaded Weasley cousin jumped off his seat, looking alarmed, and 
Auntie Muriel swung it around with surprising strength and plopped herself down 
upon it between Doge and Harry.

     "Hello again, Barry or whatever your name is," she said to Harry, "Now what 
were you saying about Rita Skeeter, Elphias? You know, she's written a biography of Dumbledore? I 
can't wait to read it. I must remember to place an order at Flourish and Blotts!"

     Doge looked stiff and solemn at this but Auntie Muriel drained her goblet and 
clicked her bony fingers at a passing waiter for a replacement. She took another large 
gulp of champagne, belched and then said, "There's no need to look like a pair of 
stuffed frogs! Before he became so respected and respectable and all that tosh, there 
were some mighty funny rumors about Albus!"

"Ill-informed sniping," said Doge, turning radish-colored again.

     "You would say that, Elphias," cackled Auntie Muriel. "I noticed how you skated 
over the sticky patches in that obituary of yours!"

     "I'm sorry you think so," said Doge, more coldly still. "I assure you I was 
writing from the heart."

     "Oh, we all know you worshipped Dumbledore; I daresay you'll still think he was 
a saint even if it does turn out that he did away with his Squib sister!"

"Muriel!" exclaimed Doge.

     A chill that had nothing to do with the iced champagne was stealing 
through Harry's chest.

     "What do you mean?" he asked Muriel. "Who said his sister was a Squib? I 
thought she was ill?"

     "Thought wrong, then, didn't you, Barry!" said Auntie Muriel, looking delighted at 
the effect she had produced. "Anyway, how could you expect to know anything about it! IT all 
happened years and years before you were even thought of, my dear, and the truth is that those of 
us who were alive then never knew what really happened. That's why I can't wait to find out what 
Skeeter's unearthed! Dumbledore kept that sister of his quiet for a long time!"

"Untrue!" wheezed Doge, "Absolutely untrue!"

     "He never told me his sister as a Squib," said Harry, without thinking, 
still cold inside.

     "And why on earth would he tell you?" screeched Muriel, swaying a little 
in her seat as she attempted to focus upon Harry.

     "The reason Albus never spoke about Ariana," began Elphias in a voice stiff with 
emotion, "is, I should have thought, quite clear. He was so devastated by her death -"

     "Why did nobody ever see her, Elphias?" squawked Muriel, "Why did half of us 
never even know she existed, until they carried the coffin out of the house and held a funeral for 
her? Where was saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being brilliant at 
Hogwarts, and never mind what was going on in his own house!"

"What d'you mean, locked in the cellar?" asked Harry. "What is this?"

Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again and answered Harry.

     "Dumbledore's mother was a terrifying woman, simply terrifying. Muggle-born, 
though I heard she pretended otherwise-"

     "She never pretended anything of the sort! Kendra was a fine woman," 
whispered Doge miserably, but Auntie Muriel ignored him.

     "- proud and very domineering, the sort of witch who would have been mortified 
to produce a Squib-"

"Ariana was not a Squib!" wheezed Doge.

     "So you say, Elphias, but explain, then, why she never attended Hogwarts!" said 
Auntie Muriel. She turned back to Harry. "In our day, Squibs were often hushed up, thought to 
take it to the extreme of actually imprisoning a little girl in the house and pretending she didn't 
exist -"

     "I tell you, that's not what happened!" said Doge, but Auntie Muriel 
steamrollered on, still addressing Harry.

     Squibs were usually shipped off to Muggle schools and encouraged to integrate 
into the Muggle community... much kinder than trying to find them a place in the 
Wizarding world, where they must always be second class, but naturally Kendra 
Dumbledore wouldn't have dreamed of letting her daughter go to a Muggle school 

     "Ariana was delicate!" said Doge desperately. "Her health was always too poor 
to permit her -"

     "- to permit her to leave the house?" cackled Muriel. "And yet she was never 
taken to St. Mungo's and no Healer was ever summoned to see her!"

"Really, Muriel, how can you possibly know whether -"

     "For your information, Elphias, my cousin Lancelot was a Healer at St. Mungo's 
at the time, and he told my family in strictest confidence that Ariana had never been 
seen there. All most suspicious, Lancelot thought!"

     Doge looked to be on the verge of tears. Auntie Muriel, who seemed to be 
enjoying herself hugely, snapped her fingers for more champagne. Numbly Harry

thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up, locked him away, kept him out 
of sight, all for the crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore's sister suffered 
the same fate in reverse: imprisoned for her lack of magic? And had Dumbledore 
truly left her to her fate while he went off to Hogwarts to prove himself 
brilliant and talented?

     "Now, if Kendra hadn't died first," Muriel resumed, "I'd have said that it was 
she who finished off Ariana -"

     "How can you, Muriel!" groaned Doge. "A mother kill her own daughter? Think 
what you're saying!"

     "If the mother in question was capable of imprisoning her daughter for years on end, why 
not?" shrugged Auntie Muriel. "But as I say, it doesn't fit, because Kendra died before 
Ariana - of what, nobody ever seemed sure-"

     "Yes, Ariana might have made a desperate bid for freedom and killed Kendra in the 
struggle," said Auntie Muriel thoughtfully. "Shake your head all you like, Elphias. You 
were at Ariana's funeral, were you not?"

     "Yes I was," said Doge, through trembling lips," and a more desperately sad 
occasion I cannot remember. Albus was heartbroken-"

     "His heart wasn't the only thing. Didn't Aberforth break Albus' nose halfway 
through the service?"

     If Doge had looked horrified before this, it was nothing to how he looked 
now. Muriel might have stabbed him. She cackled loudly and took another swig of 
champagne, which dribbled down her chin.

"How do you -?" croaked Doge.

     "My mother was friendly with old Bathilda Bagshot," said Auntie Muriel happily. 
"Bathilda described the whole thing to mother while I was listening at the door. A 
coffin-side brawl. The way Bathilda told it, Aberforth shouted that it was all Albus' fault 
that Ariana was dead and then punched him in the face. According to Bathilda, Albus did not 
even defend himself, and that's odd enough in itself. Albus could have destroyed Aberforth in 
a duel with both hands tied behind his back.

     Muriel swigged yet more champagne. The recitation of those old scandals 
seemed to elate her as much as they horrified Doge. Harry did not know what to 
think, what to believe. He wanted the truth and yet all Doge did was sit there 
and bleat feebly that Ariana had been ill. Harry could hardly believe that 
Dumbledore would not have intervened if such cruelty was happening inside his 
own house, and yet there was undoubtedly something odd about the story.

     "And I'll tell you something else," Muriel said, hiccupping slightly as she lowered 
her goblet. "I think Bathilda has spilled the beans to Rita Skeeter. All those hints in 
Skeeter's interview about an important source close to the Dumbledores - goodness knows she was 
there all through the Ariana business, and it would fit!"

"Bathilda, would never talk to Rita Skeeter!" whispered Doge.

"Bathilda Bagshot?" Harry said. "The author of A History of Magic?'

     The name was printed on the front of one of Harry's textbooks, though 
admittedly not one of the ones he had read more attentively.

     "Yes," said Doge, clutching at Harry's question like a drowning man at a life heir. 
"A most gifted magical historian and an old friend of Albus's."

"Quite gaga these days, I've heard," said Auntie Muriel cheerfully.

     "If that is so, it is even more dishonorable for Skeeter to have taken advantage of 
her," said Doge, "and no reliance can be placed on anything Bathilda may have said!"

     "Oh, there are ways of bringing back memories, and I'm sure Rita Skeeter knows them 
all," said Auntie Muriel "But even if Bathilda's completely cuckoo, I'm sure she'd still 
have old photographs, maybe even letters. She knew the Dumbledores for years.... Well worth a trip 
to Godric's Hollow, I'd have thought."

     Harry, who had been taking a sip of butterbeer, choked. Doge banged him on the back 
as Harry coughed, looking at Auntie Muriel through streaming eyes. Once he had control of 
his voice again, he asked, "Bathilda Bagshot lives in Godric's Hollow?"

     "Oh yes, she's been there forever! The Dumbledores moved there after Percival 
was imprisoned, and she was their neighbor."

"The Dumbledores lived in Godric's Hollows?"

"Yes, Barry, that's what I just said," said Auntie Muriel testily.

     Harry felt drained, empty. Never once, in six years, had Dumbledore told 
Harry that they had both lived and lost loved ones in Godric's Hollow. Why? 
Were Lily and James buried close to Dumbledore's mother and sister? Had 
Dumbledore visited their graves, perhaps walked past Lily's and James's to do 
so? And he had never once told Harry ... never bothered to say...

     And why it was so important, Harry could not explain even to himself, yet 
he felt it had been tantamount to a lie not to tell him that they had this 
place and these experiences in common. He stared ahead of him, barely noticing 
what was going on around him, and did not realize that Hermione had appeared 
out of the crowd until she drew up a chair beside him.

     "I simply can't dance anymore," she panted, slipping of one of her shoes and rubbing the sole 
of her foot. "Ron's gone looking to find more butterbeers. It's a bit odd. I've just seen Viktor 
storming away from Luna's father, it looked like they'd been arguing -" She dropped her voice, staring 
at him. "Harry, are you okay?"

     Harry did not know where to begin, but it did not matter, at that moment, 
something large and silver came falling through the canopy over the dance 
floor. Graceful and gleaming, the lynx landed lightly in the middle of the 
astonished dancers. Heads turned, as those nearest it froze absurdly in 
mid-dance. Then the Patronus's mouth opened wide and it spoke in the loud, 
deep, slow voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. They are coming."

Chapter Nine A Place to Hide

     Everything seemed fuzzy, slow. Harry and Hermione jumped to their feet and 
drew their wands. Many people were only just realizing that something strange 
had happened; heads were still turning toward the silver cat as it vanished. 
Silence spread outward in cold ripples from the place where the Patronus had 
landed. Then somebody screamed.

     Harry and Hermione threw themselves into the panicking crowd. Guests were 
sprinting in all directions; many were Disapparating; the protective 
enchantments around the Burrow had broken.

"Ron!" Hermione cried. "Ron, where are you?"

     As they pushed their way across the dance floor, Harry saw cloaked and masked 
figures appearing in the crowd; then he saw Lupin and Tonks, their wands raised, and 
heard both of them shout, "Protego!", a cry that was echoed on all sides -

     "Ron! Ron!" Hermione called, half sobbing as she and Harry were buffered 
by terrified guests: Harry seized her hand to make sure they weren't separated as a 
streak of light whizzed over their heads, whether a protective charm or something more 
sinister he did not know -

     And then Ron was there. He caught hold of Hermione's free arm, and Harry 
felt her turn on the spot; sight and sound were extinguished as darkness 
pressed in upon him; all he could feel was Hermione's hand as he was squeezed 
through space and time, away from the Burrow, away from the descending Death 
Eaters, away, perhaps, from Voldemort himself. . . .

"Where are we?" said Ron's voice.

     Harry opened his eyes. For a moment he thought they had not left the 
wedding after all; They still seemed to be surrounded by people.

     "Tottenham Court Road," panted Hermione. "Walk, just walk, we need to find 
somewhere for you to change."

     Harry did as she asked. They half walked, half ran up the wide dark street 
thronged with late-night revelers and lined with closed shops, stars twinkling 
above them. A double-decker bus rumbled by and a group of merry pub-goers ogled 
them as they passed; Harry and Ron were still wearing dress robes.

     "Hermione, we haven't got anything to change into," Ron told her, as a 
young woman burst into raucous giggles at the sight of him.

     "Why didn't I make sure I had the Invisibility Cloak with me?" said Harry, inwardly 
cursing his own stupidity. "All last year I kept it on me and -"

     "It's okay, I've got the Cloak, I've got clothes for both of you," said Hermione, 
"Just try and act naturally until - this will do."

She led them down a side street, then into the shelter of a shadowy alleyway.

     "When you say you've got the Cloak, and clothes . . ." said Harry, 
frowning at Hermione, who was carrying nothing except her small beaded handbag, in which 
she was now rummaging.

     "Yes, they're here," said Hermione, and to Harry and Ron's utter 
astonishment, she pulled out a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, some maroon socks, and 
finally the silvery Invisibility Cloak.

"How the ruddy hell - ?"

     "Undetectable Extension Charm," said Hermione. "Tricky, but I think I've done it okay; anyway, I 
managed to fit everything we need in here." She gave the fragile-looking bag a little shake and it echoed like a 
cargo hold as a number of heavy objects rolled around inside it. "Oh, damn, that'll be the books," she said, 
peering into it, "and I had them all stacked by subject. ... Oh well. . . . Harry, you'd better take the 
Invisibility Cloak. Ron, hurry up and change. . . ."

"When did you do all this?" Harry asked as Ron stripped off his robes.

     "I told you at the Burrow, I've had the essentials packed for days, you know, 
in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I packed your rucksack this morning, Harry, 
after you changed, and put it in here. . . . I just had a feeling. . . ."

"You're amazing, you are," said Ron, handing her his bundled-up robes.

     "Thank you," said Hermione, managing a small smile as she pushed the robes into the 
bag. "Please, Harry, get that Cloak on!"

     Harry threw his Invisibility Cloak around his shoulders and pulled it up 
over his head, vanishing from sight. He was only just beginning to appreciate 
what had happened.

"The others - everybody at the wedding -"

     "We can't worry about that now," whispered Hermione. "It's you they're after, 
Harry, and we'll just put everyone in even more danger by going back."

     "She's right," said Ron, who seemed to know that Harry was about to argue, even if 
he could not see his face. "Most of the Order was there, they'll look after everyone."

     Harry nodded, then remembered that they could not see him, and said, 
"Yeah." But he thought of Ginny, and fear bubbled like acid in his stomach.

"Come on, I think we ought to keep moving," said Hermione.

     They moved back up the side street and onto the main road again, where a 
group of men on the opposite side was singing and weaving across the pavement.

"Just as a matter of interest, why Tottenham Court Road?" Ron asked Hermione.

     "I've no idea, it just popped into my head, but I'm sure we're safer out in the 
Muggle world, it's not where they'll expect us to be."

"True," said Ron, looking around, "but don't you feel a bit - exposed?"

     "Where else is there?" asked Hermione, cringing as the men on the other side of the 
road started wolf-whistling at her. "We can hardly book rooms at the Leaky Cauldron, can we? 
And Grimmauld Place is out if Snape can get in there. ... I suppose we could try my parents' home, 
though I think there's a chance they might check there. . . . Oh, I wish they'd shut up!"

     "All right, darling?" the drunkest of the men on the other pavement was yelling. 
"Fancy a drink? Ditch ginger and come and have a pint!"

     "Let's sit down somewhere," Hermione said hastily as Ron opened his mouth to shout 
back across the road. "Look, this will do, in here!"

     It was a small and shabby all-night cafe. A light layer of grease lay on 
all the Formica-topped tables, but it was at least empty. Harry slipped into a 
booth first and Ron sat next to him opposite Hermione, who had her back to the 
entrance and did not like it: She glanced over her shoulder so frequently she 
appeared to have a twitch. Harry did not like being stationary; walking had 
given the illusion that they had a goal. Beneath the Cloak he could feel the 
last vestiges of Polyjuice leaving him, his hands returning to their usual 
length and shape. He pulled his glasses out of his pocket and put them on again.

     After a minute or two, Ron said, "You know, we're not far from the Leaky 
Cauldron here, it's only in Charing Cross -"

"Ron, we can't!" said Hermione at once.

"Not to stay there, but to find out what's going on!"

     "We know what's going on! Voldemort's taken over the Ministry, what else do we 
need to know?"

"Okay, okay, it was just an idea!"

     They relapsed into a prickly silence. The gum-chewing waitress shuffled 
over and Hermione ordered two cappuccinos: As Harry was invisible, it would 
have looked odd to order him one. A pair of burly workmen entered the cafe and 
squeezed into the next booth. Hermione dropped her voice to a whisper.

     "I say we find a quiet place to Disapparate and head for the countryside. Once 
we're there, we could send a message to the Order."

"Can you do that talking Patronus thing, then?" asked Ron.

"I've been practicing and I think so," said Hermione.

     "Well, as long as it doesn't get them into trouble, though they might've been 
arrested already. God, that's revolting," Ron added after one sip of the foamy, 
grayish coffee. The waitress had heard; she shot Ron a nasty look as she shuffled off to 
take the new customers' orders. The larger of the two workmen, who was blond and quite 
huge, now that Harry came to look at him, waved her away. She stared, affronted.

     "Let's get going, then, I don't want to drink this muck," said Ron. "Hermione, 
have you got Muggle money to pay for this?"

     "Yes, I took out all my Building Society savings before I came to the Burrow. 
I'll bet all the change is at the bottom," sighed Hermione, reaching for her beaded 

     The two workmen made identical movements, and Harry mirrored them without conscious 
thought: All three of them drew their wands. Ron, a few seconds late in realizing what 
was going on, lunged across the table, pushing Hermione sideways onto her bench. The 
force of the Death Eaters' spells shattered the tiled wall where Ron's head had just 
been, as Harry, still invisible, yelled, "Stupefy!"

     The great blond Death Eater was hit in the face by a jet of red light: He 
slumped sideways, unconscious. His companion, unable to see who had cast the 
spell, fired another at Ron: Shining black ropes flew from his wand-tip and 
bound Ron head to foot -the waitress screamed and ran for the door - Harry sent 
another Stunning Spell at the Death Eater with the twisted face who had tied up 
Ron, but the spell missed, rebounded on the window, and hit the waitress, who 
collapsed in front of the door.

     "Expulso!" bellowed the Death Eater, and the table behind which Harry was 
standing blew up: The force of the explosion slammed him into the wall and he felt his 
wand leave his hand as the Cloak slipped off him.

     "Petrificus Totalusf screamed Hermione from out of sight, and the Death 
Eater fell forward like a statue to land with a crunching thud on the mess of broken 
china, table, and coffee. Hermione crawled out from underneath the bench, shaking 
bits of glass ashtray out of her hair and trembling all over.

     "D-diffindo," she said, pointing her wand at Ron, who roared in pain as she slashed 
open the knee of his jeans, leaving a deep cut. "Oh, I'm so sorry, Ron, my hand's shaking! 

     The severed ropes fell away. Ron got to his feet, shaking his arms to 
regain feeling in them. Harry picked up his wand and climbed over all the 
debris to where the large blond Death Eater was sprawled across the bench.

     "I should've recognized him, he was there the night Dumbledore died," he 
said. He turned over the darker Death Eater with his foot; the man's eyes moved rapidly 
between Harry, Ron and Hermione.

     "That's Dolohov," said Ron. "I recognize him from the old wanted posters. I 
think the big one's Thorfinn Rowle."

     "Never mind what they're called!" said Hermione a little hysterically. "How did 
they find us? What are we going to do?"

Somehow her panic seemed to clear Harry's head.

"Lock the door," he told her, "and Ron, turn out the lights."

     He looked down at the paralyzed Dolohov, thinking fast as the lock clicked 
and Ron used the Deluminator to plunge the cafe into darkness. Harry could hear 
the men who had jeered at Hermione earlier, yelling at another girl in the 

     "What are we going to do with them?" Ron whispered to Harry through the dark; then, 
even more quietly, "Kill them? They'd kill us. They had a good go just now."

Hermione shuddered and took a step backward. Harry shook his head.

     "We just need to wipe their memories," said Harry. "It's better like that, 
it'll throw them off the scent. If we killed them it'd be obvious we were here."

     "You're the boss," said Ron, sounding profoundly relieved. "But I've never down 
a Memory Charm."

"Nor have I," said Hermione, "but I know the theory."

     She took a deep, calming breath, then pointed her wand at Dolohov's forehead and 
said, "Obliviate"

At once, Dolohov's eyes became unfocused and dreamy.

     "Brilliant!" said Harry, clapping her on the back. "Take care of the other one 
and the waitress while Ron and I clear up."

"Clear up?" said Ron, looking around at the partly destroyed cafe. "Why?"

     "Don't you think they might wonder what's happened if they wake up and find 
themselves in a place that looks like it's just been bombed?"

"Oh right, yeah . . ."

Ron struggled for a moment before managing to extract his wand from his pocket.

     "It's no wonder I can't get it out, Hermione, you packed my old jeans, they're 

     "Oh, I'm so sorry," hissed Hermione, and as she dragged the waitress out 
of sight of the windows, Harry heard her mutter a suggestion as to where Ron could stick 
his wand instead.

     Once the cafe was restored to its previous condition, they heaved the Death Eaters back into 
their booth and propped them up facing each other. "But how did they find us?" Hermione 
asked, looking from one inert man to the other. "How did they know where we were?"

She turned to Harry.

"You - you don't think you've still got your Trace on you, do you, Harry?"

     "He can't have," said Ron. "The Trace breaks at seventeen, that's Wizarding 
law, you can't put it on an adult."

     "As far as you know," said Hermione. "What if the Death Eaters have found a way 
to put it on a seventeen-year-old?"

     "But Harry hasn't been near a Death Eater in the last twenty-four hours. Who's 
supposed to have put a Trace back on him?"

     Hermione did not reply. Harry felt contaminated, tainted: Was that really 
how the Death Eaters had found them?

     "If I can't use magic, and you can't use magic near me, without us giving away 
our position - " he began.

"We're not splitting up!" said Hermione firmly.

"We need a safe place to hide," said Ron. "Give us time to think things 

"Grimmauld Place," said Harry.

The other two gaped.

"Don't be silly, Harry, Snape can get in there!"

     "Ron's dad said they've put up jinxes against him - and even if they haven't 
worked," he pressed on as Hermione began to argue "so what? I swear, I'd like nothing 
better than to meet Snape!"


     "Hermione, where else is there? It's the best chance we've got. Snape's only 
one Death Eater. If I've still got the Trace on me, we'll have whole crowds of them on us 
wherever else we go."

     She could not argue, though she looked as if she would have liked to. 
While she unlocked the cafe door, Ron clicked the Deluminator to release the 
cafe's light. Then, on Harry's count of three, they reversed the spells upon 
their three victims, and before the waitress or either of the Death Eaters 
could do more than stir sleepily, Harry, Ron and Hermione had turned on the 
spot and vanished into the compressing darkness once more.

     Seconds later Harry's lungs expanded gratefully and he opened his eyes: 
They were now standing in the middle of a familiar small and shabby square. 
Tall, dilapidated houses looked down on them from every side. Number twelve was 
visible to them, for they had been told of its existence by Dumbledore, its 
Secret-Keeper, and they rushed toward it, checking every few yards that they 
were not being followed or observed. They raced up the stone steps, and Harry 
tapped the front door once with his wand. They heard a series of metallic 
clicks and the clatter of a chain, then the door swung open with a creak and 
they hurried over the threshold.

     As Harry closed the door behind them, the old-fashioned gas lamps sprang 
into life, casting flickering light along the length of the hallway. It looked 
just as Harry remembered it: eerie, cobwebbed, the outlines of the house-elf 
heads on the wall throwing odd shadows up the staircase. Long dark curtains 
concealed the portrait of Sirius's mother. The only thing that was out of place 
was the troll's leg umbrella stand, which was lying on its side as if Tonks had 
just knocked it over again.

"I think somebody's been in here," Hermione whispered, pointing toward it.

"That could've happened as the Order left," Ron murmured back.

"So where are these jinxes they put up against Snape?" Harry asked.

"Maybe they're only activated if he shows up?" suggested Ron.

     Yet they remained close together on the doormat, backs against the door, 
scared to move farther into the house.

"Well, we can't stay here forever," said Harry, and he took a step forward.

"Severus Snape?"

     Mad-Eye Moody's voice whispered out of the darkness, making all three of them jump 
back in fright. "We're not Snape!" croaked Harry, before something whooshed 
over him like cold air and his tongue curled backward on itself, making it impossible to 
speak. Before he had time to feel inside his mouth, however, his tongue had unraveled 

     The other two seemed to have experienced the same unpleasant sensation. Ron was 
making retching noises; Hermione stammered, "That m-must have b-been the 
T-Tongue-Tying Curse Mad-Eye set up for Snape!"

     Gingerly Harry took another step forward. Something shifted in the shadows 
at the end of the hall, and before any of them could say another word, a figure 
had risen up out of the carpet, tall, dust-colored, and terrible; Hermione 
screamed and so did Mrs. Black, her curtains flying open; the gray figure was 
gliding toward them, faster and faster,

its waist-length hair and beard streaming behind it, its face sunken, 
fleshless, with empty eye sockets: Horribly familiar, dreadfully altered, it 
raised a wasted arm, pointing at Harry.

     "No!" Harry shouted, and though he had raised his wand no spell occurred to him. 
"No! It wasn't us! We didn't kill you -"

     On the word kill, the figure exploded in a great cloud of dust: Coughing, his eyes 
watering, Harry looked around to see Hermione crouched on the floor by the door with her 
arms over her head, and Ron, who was shaking from head to foot, patting her clumsily on 
the shoulder and saying, "It's all r-right. ... It's g-gone. . . ."

     Dust swirled around Harry like mist, catching the blue gaslight, as Mrs. 
Black continued to scream.

"Mudbloods, filth, stains of dishonor, taint of shame on the house of my fathers 

     "SHUT UP!" Harry bellowed, directing his wand at her, and with a bang and 
a burst of red sparks, the curtains swung shut again, silencing her.

"That. . . that was ..." Hermione whimpered, as Ron helped her to her feet.

     "Yeah," said Harry, "but it wasn't really him, was it? Just something to scare 

     Had it worked, Harry wondered, or had Snape already blasted the 
horror-figure aside as casually as he had killed the real Dumbledore? Nerves 
still tingling, he led the other two up the hall, half-expecting some new 
terror to reveal itself, but nothing moved except for a mouse skittering along 
the skirting board.

     "Before we go any farther, I think we'd better check," whispered Hermione, and she 
raised her wand and said, "Homenum revelio."

Nothing happened.

     "Well, you've just had a big shock," said Ron kindly. "What was that supposed 
to do?"

     "It did what I meant it to do!" said Hermione rather crossly. "That was a spell 
to reveal human presence, and there's nobody here except us!"

     "And old Dusty," said Ron, glancing at the patch of carpet from which the 
corpse-figure had risen.

     "Let's go up," said Hermione with a frightened look at the same spot, and 
she led the way up the creaking stairs to the drawing room on the first floor.

     Hermione waved her wand to ignite the old gas lamps, then, shivering 
slightly in the drafty room, she perched on the sofa, her arms wrapped tightly 
around her. Ron crossed to the window and moved the heavy velvet curtains aside 
an inch.

     "Can't see anyone out there," he reported. "And you'd think, if Harry still had 
a Trace on him, they'd have followed us here. I know they can't get in the house, but -what's up, 

     Harry had given a cry of pain: His scar had burned against as something 
flashed across his mind like a bright light on water. He saw a large shadow and 
felt a fury that was not his own pound through his body, violent and brief as 
an electric shock.

     "What did you see?" Ron asked, advancing on Harry. "Did you see him at my 

"No, I just felt anger - he's really angry -"

     "But that could be at the Burrow," said Ron loudly. "What else? Didn't you see 
anything? Was he cursing someone?"

"No, I just felt anger -1 couldn't tell -"

     Harry felt badgered, confused, and Hermione did not help as she said in a frightened 
voice, "Your scar, again? But what's going on? I thought that connection had 

     "It did, for a while," muttered Harry; his scar was still painful, which made it 
hard to concentrate. "I -1 think it's started opening again whenever he loses control, that's 
how it used to -"

     "But then you've got to close your mind!" said Hermione shrilly. "Harry, 
Dumbledore didn't want you to use that connection, he wanted you to shut it down, that's why you 
were supposed to use Occlumency! Otherwise Voldemort can plant false images in your mind, remember 

     "Yeah, I do remember, thanks," said Harry through gritted teeth; he did 
not need Hermione to tell him that Voldemort had once used this selfsame connection 
between them to lead him into a trap, nor that it had resulted in Sirius's death. He 
wished that he had not told them what he had seen and felt; it made Voldemort more 
threatening, as though he were pressing against the window of the room, and still the 
pain in his scar was building and he fought it: It was like resisting the urge to be sick.

     He turned his back on Ron and Hermione, pretending to examine the old 
tapestry of the Black family tree on the wall. Then Hermione shrieked: Harry 
drew his wand again and spun around to see a silver Patronus soar through the 
drawing room window and land upon the floor in front of them, where it 
solidified into the weasel that spoke with the voice of Ron's father.

"Family safe, do not reply, we are being watched."

     The Patronus dissolved into nothingness. Ron let out a noise between a 
whimper and a groan and dropped onto the sofa: Hermione joined him, gripping 
his arm.

     "They're all right, they're all right!" she whispered, and Ron half 
laughed and hugged her.

"Harry," he said over Hermione's shoulder, "I -"

     "It's not a problem," said Harry, sickened by the pain in his head. "It's your family, 
'course you were worried. I'd feel the same way." He thought of Ginny. "I do feel the same 

     The pain in his scar was reaching a peak, burning as it had back in the garden of 
the Burrow. Faintly he heard Hermione say "I don't want to be on my own. Could we 
use the sleeping bags I've brought and camp in here tonight?"

He heard Ron agree. He could not fight the pain much longer. He had to succumb.

"Bathroom," he muttered, and he left the room as fast as he could without 

     He barely made it: Bolting the door behind him with trembling hands, he 
grasped his pounding head and fell to the floor, then in an explosion of agony, 
he felt the rage that did not belong to him possess his soul, saw a long room 
lit only by firelight, and the giant blond Death Eater on the floor, screaming 
and writhing, and a slighter figure standing over him, wand outstretched, while 
Harry spoke in a high, cold, merciless voice.

     "More, Rowle, or shall we end it and feed you to Nagini? Lord Voldemort is not 
sure that he will forgive this time. . . . You called me back for this, to tell me that 
Harry Potter has escaped again? Draco, give Rowle another taste of our displeasure. ... 
Do it, or feel my wrath yourself!"

     A log fell in the fire: Flames reared, their light darting across a 
terrified, pointed white face - with a sense of emerging from deep water, Harry 
drew heaving breaths and opened his eyes.

     He was spread-eagled on the cold black marble floor, his nose inches from 
one of the silver serpent tails that supported the large bathtub. He sat up. 
Malfoy's gaunt, petrified face seemed burned on the inside of his eyes. Harry 
felt sickened by what he had seen, by the use to which Draco was now being put 
by Voldemort.

     There was a sharp rap on the door, and Harry jumped as Hermione's voice 
rang out.

"Harry, do you want your toothbrush? I've got it here."

     "Yeah, great, thanks," he said, fighting to keep his voice casual as he 
stood up to let her in.

Chapter Ten Krea cher's Tale

     Harry woke early next morning, wrapped in a sleeping bag on the drawing 
room floor. A chink of sky was visible between the heavy curtains. It was the 
cool, clear blue of watered ink, somewhere between night and dawn, and 
everything was quiet except for Ron and Hermi one's slow, deep breathing. Harry 
glanced over at the dark shapes they made on the floor beside him. Ron had had 
a fit of gallantry and insisted that Hermi one sleep on the cushions from the 
sofa, so that her silhouette was raised above his. Her arm curved to the floor, 
her fingers inches from Ron's. Harry wondered whether they had fallen asleep 
holding hands. The idea made him feel strangely lonely.

     He looked up at the shadowy ceiling, the cobwebbed chandelier. Less than 
twenty-four house ago, he had been standing in the sunlight at the entrance to 
the marquee, waiting to show in wedding guests. It seemed a lifetime away. What 
was going to happen now? He lay on the floor and he thought of the Horcruxes, 
of the daunting complex mission Dumbledore had left him... Dumbledore...

     The grief that had possessed him since Dumbledore's death felt different 
now. The accusations he had heard from Muriel at the wedding seemed to have 
nested in his brain like diseased things, infecting his memories of the wizard 
he had idolized. Could Dumbledore have let such things happen? Had he been like 
Dudley, content to watch neglect and abuse as long as it did not affect him? 
Could he have turned his back on a sister who was being imprisoned and hidden?

     Harry thought of Godric's Hollow, of graves Dumbledore had never mentioned 
there; he thought of mysterious objects left without explanation in 
Dumbledore's will, and resentment swelled in the darkness. Why hadn't 
Dumbledore told him? Why hadn't he explained? Had Dumbledore actually cared 
about Harry at all? Or had Harry been nothing more than a tool to be polished 
and honed, but not trusted, never confided in?

     Harry could not stand lying there with nothing but bitter thoughts for company. 
Desperate for something to do, for distraction, he slipped out of his sleeping bad, 
picked up his wand, and crept out of the room. On the landing he whispered, "Lumos, 
" and started to climb the stairs by wandlight.

     On the second landing was the bedroom in which he and Ron had slept last 
time they had been here; he glanced into it. The wardrobe doors stood open and 
the bedclothes had been ripped back. Harry remembered the overturned troll leg 
downstairs. Somebody had searched the house since the Order had left. Snape? Or 
perhaps Mundungus, who had pilfered plenty from this house both before and 
after Sirius died? Harry's gaze wandered to the portrait that sometimes 
contained Phineas Nigellus Black, Sirius's great-great grandfather, but it was 
empty, showing nothing but a stretch of muddy backdrop. Phineas Nigellus was 
evidently spending the night in the headmaster's study at Hogwarts.

     Harry continued up the stairs until he reached the topmost landing where 
there were only two doors. The one facing him bore a nameplate reading Sirius. 
Harry had never entered his godfather's bedroom before. He pushed open the 
door, holding his wand high to cast light as widely as possible. The room was 
spacious and must once have been handsome. There was a large bed with a carved 
wooden headboard, a tall window obscured by long velvet curtains and a 
chandelier thickly coated in dust with candle scrubs still resting in its 
sockets, solid wax banging in frostlike drips. A fine film of dust covered the 
pictures on the walls and the bed's headboard; a spiders web stretched between 
the chandelier and the top of the large wooden wardrobe, and as Harry moved 
deeper into the room, he head a scurrying of disturbed mice.

     The teenage Sirius had plastered the walls with so many posters and 
pictures that little of the wall's silvery-gray silk was visible. Harry could 
only assume that Sirius's parents had been unable to remove the Permanent 
Sticking Charm that kept them on the wall because he was sure they would not 
have appreciated their eldest son's taste in decoration. Sirius seemed to have 
long gone out of his way to annoy his parents. There were several large 
Gryffindor banners, faded scarlet and gold just to underline his difference 
from all the rest of the Slytherin family. There were many pictures of Muggle 
motorcycles, and also (Harry had to admire Sirius's nerve) several posters of 
bikini-clad Muggle girls. Harry could tell that they were Muggles because they 
remained quite stationary within their pictures, faded smiles and glazed eyes 
frozen on the paper. This was in contrast the only Wizarding photograph on the 
walls which was a picture of four Hogwarts students standing arm in arm, 
laughing at the camera.

     With a leap of pleasure, Harry recognized his father, his untidy black 
hair stuck up at the back like Harry's, and he too wore glasses. Beside him was 
Sirius, carelessly handsome, his slightly arrogant face so much younger and 
happier than Harry had ever seen it alive. To Sirius's right stood Pettigrew, 
more than a head shorter, plump and watery-eyed, flushed with pleasure at his 
inclusion in this coolest of gangs, with the much-admired rebels that James and 
Sirius had been. On James's left was Lupin, even then a little shabby-looking, 
but he had the same air of delighted surprise at finding himself liked and 
included or was it simply because Harry knew how it had been, that he saw these 
things in the picture? He tried to take it from the wall; it was his now, after 
all, Sirius had left him everything, but it would not budge. Sirius had taken 
no chances in preventing his parents from redecorating his room.

     Harry looked around at the floor. The sky outside was growing brightest. A 
shaft of light revealed bits of paper, books, and small objects scattered over 
the carpet. Evidently Sirius's bedroom had been reached too, although its 
contents seemed to have been judged mostly, if not entirely, worthless. A few 
of the books had been shaken roughly enough to part company with the covers and 
sundry pages littered the floor.

     Harry bent down, picked up a few of the pieces of paper, and examined 
them. He recognized one as a part of an old edition of A History of Magic, by 
Bathilda Bagshot, and another as belonging to a motorcycle maintenance manual. 
The third was handwritten and crumpled. He smoothed it out.

Dear Padfoot,

            Thank you, thank you, for Harry's birthday present! It was his 
favorite by far. One year old and already zooming along on a toy broomstick, he 
looked so pleased with himself. I'm enclosing a picture so you can see. You 
know it only rises about two feet off the ground but he nearly killed the cat 
and he smashed a horrible vase Petunia sent me for Christmas (no complaints 
there). Of course James thought it was so funny, says he's going to be a great 
Quidditch player but we 've had to pack away all the ornaments and make sure we 
don't take our eyes off him when he gets going.

     We had a very quiet birthday tea, just us and old Bathilda who has always 
been sweet to us and who dotes on Garry. We were so sorry you couldn 't come, 
but the Order's got to come first, and Harry's not old enough to know it's his 
birthday anyway! James is getting a bit frustrated shut up here, he tries not 
to show it but I can tell - also Dumbledore 's still got his Invisibility 
Cloak, so no chance of little excursions. If you could visit, it would cheer 
him up so much. Wormy was here last weekend. I thought he seemed down, but that 
was probably the next about the McKinnons; I cried all evening when I heard.

     Bathilda drops in most days, she's a fascinating old thing with the most 
amazing stories about Dumbledore. I 'm not sure he 'd be pleased if he knew! I 
don't know how much to believe, actually because it seems incredible that 

     Harry's extremities seemed to have gone numb. He stood quite still, 
holding the miraculous paper in his nerveless fingers while inside him a kind 
of quiet eruptions sent joy and grief thundering its equal measure through his 
veins. Lurching to the bed, he sat down.

     He read the letter again, but could not take in any more meaning than he had done 
the first time, and was reduced to staring at the handwriting itself. She had made her 
"g"s the same way he did. He searched through the letter for every one of them, 
and each felt like a friendly little wave glimpsed from behind a veil. The letter was an 
incredible treasure, proof that Lily Potter had lived, really lived, that her warm hand 
had once moved across this parchment, tracing ink into these letters, these words, words 
about him, Harry, her son.

     Impatiently brushing away the wetness in his eyes, he reread the letter, 
this time concentrating on the meaning. It was like listening to a 
half-remembered voice.

     They had a cat... perhaps it had perished, like his parents at Godric's 
Hollow... or else fled when there was nobody left to feed it... Sirius had 
bought him his first broomstick... His parents had known Bathilda Bagshot; had 
Dumbledore introduced them? Dumbledore's still got his Invisibility Cloak... 
there was something funny there...

     Harry paused, pondering his mother's words. Why had Dumbledore taken James's 
Invisibility Cloak? Harry distinctly remembered his headmaster telling him years before, 
"I don't need a cloak to become invisible" Perhaps some less gifted Order

member had needed its assistance, and Dumbledore had acted as a carrier? Harry 
passed on...

     Wormy was here... Pettigrew, the traitor, had seemed "down" had he? Was he 
aware that he was seeing James and Lily alive for the last time?

     And finally Bathilda again, who told incredible stories about Dumbledore. 
It seems incredible that Dumbledore ?

     That Dumbledore what? But there were any number of things that would seem 
incredible about Dumbledore; that he had once received bottom marks in a 
Transfiguration test, for instance or had taken up goat charming like 

     Harry got to his feet and scanned the floor: Perhaps the rest of the 
letter was here somewhere. He seized papers, treating them in his eagerness, 
with as little consideration as the original searcher, he pulled open drawers, 
shook out books, stood on a chair to run his hand over the top of the wardrobe, 
and crawled under the bed and armchair.

     At last, lying facedown on the floor, he spotted what looked like a torn 
piece of paper under the chest of drawers. When he pulled it out, it proved to 
be most of the photograph that Lily had described in her letter. A black-haired 
baby was zooming in and out of the picture on a tiny broom, roaring with 
laughter, and a pair of legs that must have belonged to James was chasing after 
him. Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket with Lily's letter and 
continued to look for the second sheet.

     After another quarter of an hour, however he was forced to conclude that 
the rest of his mother's letter was gone. Had it simply been lost in the 
sixteen years that had elapsed since it had been written, or had it been taken 
by whoever had searched the room? Harry read the first sheet again, this time 
looking for clues as to what might have made the second sheet valuable. His toy 
broomstick could hardly be considered interesting to the Death Eaters... The 
only potentially useful thing he could see her was possible information on 
Dumbledore. It seems incredible that Dumbledore - what?

"Harry? Harry? Harry!"

"I'm here!" he called, "What's happened?"

There was a clatter of footsteps outside the door, and Hermione burst inside.

     "We woke up and didn't know where you were!" she said breathlessly. She turned and 
shouted over her shoulder, "Ron! I've found him"

Ron's annoyed voice echoed distantly from several floors below.

"Good! Tell him from me he's a git!"

     "Harry don't just disappear, please, we were terrified! Why did you come up here 
anyway?" She gazed around the ransacked room. "What have you been doing?"

"Look what I've just found"

     He held out his mother's letter. Hermione took it out and read it while 
Harry watched her. When she reached the end of the page she looked up at him.

"Oh Harry..."

"And there's this too"

     He handed her the torn photograph, and Hermione smiled at the baby zooming 
in and out of sight on the toy broom.

"I've been looking for the rest of the letter," Harry said, "but it's not here."

Hermione glanced around.

"Did you make all this mess, or was some of it done when you got here?"

"Someone had searched before me," said Harry.

     "I thought so. Every room I looked into on the way up had been disturbed. What 
were they after, do you think?"

"Information on the Order, if it was Snape."

     "But you'd think he'd already have all he needed. I mean was in the Order, 
wasn't he?"

     "Well then," said Harry, keen to discuss his theory, "what about information on 
Dumbledore? The second page of the letter, for instance. You know this Bathilda my mum mentions, 
you know who she is?"


"Bathilda Bagshot, the author of-"

     "A History of Magic, " said Hermione, looking interested. "So your parents knew 
her? She was an incredible magic historian."

     "And she's still alive," said Harry, "and she lives in Godric's Hollow. Ron's Auntie Muriel was talking about 
her at the wedding. She knew Dumbledore's family too. Be pretty interesting to talk to, wouldn't she?" There was a little 
too much understanding in the smile Hermione gave him for Harry's liking. He took back the letter and the photograph and tucked 
them inside the pouch around his neck, so as not to have to look at her and give himself away. "I understand why you'd love 
to talk to her about your mum and dad, and Dumbledore too," said Hermione. "But that wouldn't really help us in our 
search for the Horcruxes, would it?" Harry did not answer, and she rushed on, "Harry, I know you really want to go to 
Godric's Hollow, but I'm scared. I'm scared at how easily those Death Eaters found us yesterday. It just makes me feel more than 
ever that we ought to avoid the place where your parents are buried, I'm sure they'd be expecting you to visit it."

     "It's not just that," Harry said, still avoiding looking at her, "Muriel 
said stuff about Dumbledore at the wedding. I want to know the truth.

     He told Hermione everything that Muriel had told him. When he had finished, Hermione 
said, "Of course, I can see why that's upset you, Harry -"

"I'm not upset," he lied, "I'd just like to know whether or not it's true or -"

     "Harry do you really think you'll get the truth from a malicious old woman like 
Muriel, or from Rita Skeeter? How can you believe them? You knew Dumbledore!"

"I thought I did," he muttered.

     "But you know how much truth there was in everything Rita wrote about you! Doge 
is right, how can you let these people tarnish your memories of Dumbledore?"

     He looked away, trying not to betray the resentment he felt. There it was 
again: Choose what to believe. He wanted the truth. Why was everybody so 
determined that he should not get it?

     "Shall we go down to the kitchen?" Hermione suggested after a little pause. 
"Find something for breakfast?"

     He agreed, but grudgingly, and followed her out onto the landing and past 
the second door that led off it. There were deep scratch marks in the paintwork 
below a small sign that he had not noticed in the dark. He passed at the top of 
the stairs to read it. It was a pompous little sign, neatly lettered by hand 
the sort of thing that Percy Weasley might have stuck on his bedroom door.

Do Not Enter

Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black

Excitement trickled through Harry, but he was not immediately sure why. He read 
the sign again. Hermione was already a flight of stairs below him.

     "Hermione," he said, and he was surprised that his voice was so calm. "Come 
back up here."

"What's the matter?"

"R.A.B. I think I've found him."

There was a gasp, and then Hermione ran back up the stairs.

"In your mum's letter? But I didn't see -"

     Harry shook his head, pointing at Regulus's sign. She read it, then 
clutched Harry's arm so tightly that he winced.

"Sirius's brother?" she whispered.

     "He was a Death Eater," said Harry. "Sinus told me about him, he joined up when 
he was really young and then got cold feet and tried to leave - so they killed him."

     "That fits!" gasped Hermione. "If he was a Death Eater he had access to 
Voldemort, and if he became disenchanted, then he would have wanted to bring Voldemort down!"

     She released Harry, leaned over the banister, and screamed, "Ron! RON! Get up 
here, quick!"

Ron appeared, panting, a minute later, his wand ready in his hand.

"What's up? If it's massive spiders again I want breakfast before I -"

     He frowned at the sign on Regulus's door, in which Hermione was silently 

     "What? That was Sirius's brother, wasn't it? Regulus Arcturus ... Regulus ... 
R.A.B.! The locket - you don't reckon -- ?"

     "Let's find out," said Harry. He pushed the door: It was locked. Hermione pointed 
her wand at the handle and said, "Alohamora" There was a click, and the door swung open.

     They moved over the threshold together, gazing around. Regulus's bedroom 
was slightly smaller than Sirius's, though it had the same sense of former 
grandeur. Whereas Sinus had sought to advertise his diffidence from the rest of 
the family, Regulus had striven to emphasize the opposite. The Slytherin colors 
of emerald and silver were everywhere, draping the bed, the walls, and the 
windows. The Black family crest was painstakingly painted over the bed, along 
with its motto, TOUJOURS PUR. Beneath this was a collection of yellow newspaper 
cuttings, all stuck together to make a ragged collage. Hermione crossed the 
room to examine them.

     "They're all about Voldemort," she said. "Regulus seems to have been a fan for 
a few years before he joined the Death Eaters ..."

     A little puff of dust rose from the bedcovers as she sat down to read the 
clippings. Harry, meanwhile, had noticed another photograph: a Hogwarts 
Quidditch team was smiling and waving out of the frame. He moved closer and saw 
the snakes emblazoned on their chests: Slytherins. Regulus was instantly 
recognizable as the boy sitting in the middle of the front row: He had the same 
dark hair and slightly haughty look of his brother, though he was smaller, 
slighter, and rather less handsome than Sinus had been.

"He played Seeker," said Harry.

     "What?" said Hermione vaguely; she was still immersed in Voldemort's press 

     "He's sitting in the middle of the front row, that's where the Seeker ... Never 
mind," said Harry, realizing that nobody was listening. Ron was on his hands and 
knees, searching under the wardrobe. Harry looked around the room for likely hiding 
places and approached the desk. Yet again, somebody had searched before them. The 
drawers' contents had been turned over recently, the dust disturbed, but there was 
nothing of value there: old quills, out-of-date textbooks that bore evidence of being 
roughly handled, a recently smashed ink bottle, its sticky residue covering the contents 
of the drawer.

     "There's an easier way," said Hermione, as Harry wiped his inky fingers on his 
jeans. She raised her wand and said, "Actio Locket!"

     Nothing happened. Ron, who had been searching the folds of the faded 
curtains, looked disappointed.

"Is that it, then? It's not here?"

     "Oh, it could still be here, but under counter-enchantments," said Hermione. 
"Charms to prevent it from being summoned magically, you know."

     "Like Voldemort put on the stone basin in the cave," said Harry, 
remembering how he had been unable to Summon the fake locket.

"How are we supposed to find it then?" asked Ron.

"We search manually," said Hermione.

     "That's a good idea," said Ron, rolling his eyes, and he resumed his 
examination of the curtains.

     They combed every inch of the room for more than an hour, but were forced, 
finally, to conclude that the locket was not there.

     The sun had risen now; its light dazzled them even through the grimy 
landing windows.

     "It could be somewhere else in the house, though," said Hermione in a rallying tone 
as they walked back downstairs. As Harry and Ron had become more discouraged, she seemed to have 
become more determined. "Whether he'd manage to destroy it or not, he'd want to keep it hidden 
from Voldemort, wouldn't he? Remember all those awful things we had to get rid of when we were here 
last time? That clock that shot bolts at everyone and those old robes that tried to strangle Ron; 
Regulus might have put them there to protect the locket's hiding place, even though we didn't 
realize it at... at... "

     Harry and Ron looked at her. She was standing with one foot in midair, 
with the dumbstruck look of one who had just been Obliviated: her eyes had even 
drifted out of focus.

"... at the time," she finished in a whisper.

"Something wrong?" asked Ron.

"There was a locket."

"What?" said Harry and Ron together.

"In the cabinet in the drawing room. Nobody could open it. And we ... we ... "

     Harry felt as though a brick had slid down through his chest into his stomach. 
He remembered. He had even handled the thing as they passed it around, each trying 
in turn to pry it open. It had been tossed into a sack of rubbish, along with the 
snuffbox of Wartcap powder and the music box that had made everyone sleepy ..."

     "Kreacher nicked loads of things back from us," said Harry. It was the only chance, 
the only slender hope left to them, and he was going to cling to it until forced to let go. 
"He had a whole stash of stuff in his cupboard in the kitchen. C'mon."

     He ran down the stairs taking two steps at a time, the other two 
thundering along in his wake. They made so much noise that they woke the 
portrait of Sirius's mother as they passed through the hall.

     "Filth! Mudb foods! Scum!" she screamed after them as they dashed down 
into the basement kitchen and slammed the door behind them. Harry ran the length of the 
room, skidded to a halt at the door of Kreacher's cupboard, and wrenched it open. There 
was the nest of dirty old blankets in which the house-elf had once slept, but they were 
not longer glittering with the trinkets Kreacher had salvaged. The only thing there was 
an old copy of Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding Genealogy. Refusing to believe his eyes, 
Harry snatched up the blankets and shook them. A dead mouse fell out and rolled dismally 
across the floor. Ron groaned as he threw himself into a kitchen chair; Hermione closed 
her eyes.

"It's not over yet," said Harry, and he raised his voice and called, "Kreacher!"

     There was a loud crack and the house elf that Harry had so reluctantly 
inherited from Sirius appeared out of nowhere in front of the cold and empty 
fireplace: tiny, half human-sized, his pale skin hanging off him in folds, 
white hair sprouting copiously from his batlike ears. He was still wearing the 
filthy rag in which they had first met him, and the contemptuous look he bent 
upon Harry showed that his attitude to his change of ownership had altered no 
more than his outfit.

     "Master," croaked Kreacher in his bullfrog's voice, and he bowed low; muttering to 
his knees, "back in my Mistress's old house with the blood-traitor Weasley and the Mudblood 

     "I forbid you to call anyone 'blood traitor' or 'Mudblood,'" growled 
Harry. He would have found Kreacher, with his snoutlike nose and bloodshot eyes, a 
distinctively unlovable object even if the elf had not betrayed Sirius to Voldemort.

     "I've got a question for you," said Harry, his heart beating rather fast as he 
looked down at the elf, "and I order you to answer it truthfully. Understand?"

     "Yes, Master," said Kreacher, bowing low again. Harry saw his lips moving 
soundlessly, undoubtedly framing the insults he was now forbidden to utter.

     "Two years ago," said Harry, his heart now hammering against his ribs, "there 
was a big gold locket in the drawing room upstairs. We threw it out. Did you steal it back?"

     There was a moment's silence, during which Kreacher straightened up to look Harry 
full in the face. Then he said, "Yes."

"Where is it now?" asked Harry jubilantly as Ron and Hermione looked gleeful.

     Kreacher closed his eyes as though he could not bear to see their 
reactions to his next word.


     "Gone?" echoed Harry, elation floating out of him, "What do you mean, it's 

The elf shivered. He swayed.

"Kreacher," said Harry fiercely, "I order you -"

     "Mundungus Fletcher," croaked the elf, his eyes still tight shut. "Mundungus 
Fletcher stole it all; Miss Bella's and Miss Cissy's pictures, my Mistress's gloves, the Order of 
Merlin, First Class, the goblets with the family crest, and - and - "

     Kreacher was gulping for air: His hollow chest was rising and falling 
rapidly, then his eyes flew open and he uttered a bloodcurdling scream.

     "?and the locket, Master Regulus's locket. Kreacher did wrong, Kreacher failed 
in his orders!"

    Harry reacted instinctively: As Kreacher lunged for the poker standing in the grate, 
he launched himself upon the elf, flattening him. Hermione's scream mingled with 
Kreacher's but Harry bellowed louder than both of them: "Kreacher, I order you to 
stay still!"

     He felt the elf freeze and released him. Kreacher lay flat on the cold 
stone floor, tears gushing from his sagging eyes.

"Harry, let him up!" Hermione whispered.

    "So he can beat himself up with the poker?" snorted Harry, kneeling beside the elf. 
"I don't think so. Right. Kreacher, I want the truth: How do you know Mundungus Fletcher stole 
the locket?"

     "Kreacher saw him!" gasped the elf as tears poured over his snout and into his mouth 
full of graying teeth. "Kreacher saw him coming out of Kreacher's cupboard with his hands full 
of Kreacher's treasures. Kreacher told the sneak thief to stop, but Mundungus Fletcher laughed and 
r-ran ..."

     "You called the locket 'Master Regulus's,'" said Harry. "Why? Where did it come 
from? What did Regulus have to do with it? Kreacher, sit up and tell me everything you know about 
that locket, and everything Regulus had to do with it!"

     The elf sat up, curled into a ball, placed his wet face between his knees, 
and began to rock backward and forward. When he spoke, his voice was muffled 
but quite distinct in the silent, echoing kitchen.

     "Master Sirius ran away, good riddance, for he was a bad boy and broke my 
Mistress's heart with his lawless ways. But Master Regulus had proper order; he knew 
what was due to the name of Black and the dignity of his pure blood. For years he 
talked of the Dark Lord, who was going to bring the wizards out of hiding to rule 
the Muggles and the Muggle-borns ... and when he was sixteen years old, Master 
Regulus joined the Dark Lord. So proud, so proud, so happy to serve ...

     And one day, a year after he joined, Master Regulus came down to the kitchen to 
see Kreacher. Master Regulus always liked Kreacher. And Master Regulus said ... he 

The old elf rocked faster than ever.

"... he said that the Dark Lord required an elf."

     "Voldemort needed an elfC Harry repeated, looking around at Ron and 
Hermione, who looked just as puzzled as he did.

     "Oh yes," moaned Kreacher. "And Master Regulus had volunteered Kreacher. It was 
an honor, said Master Regulus, an honor for him and for Kreacher, who must be sure to do whatever 
the Dark Lord ordered him to do ... and then to c-come home."

Kreacher rocked still faster, his breath coming in sobs.

     "So Kreacher went to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord did not tell Kreacher what 
they were to do, but took Kreacher with him to a cave beside the sea. And beyond the cave 
was a cavern, and in the cavern was a great black lake ..."

     The hairs on the back of Harry's neck stood up. Kreacher's croaking voice 
seemed to come to him from across the dark water. He saw what had happened as 
clearly as though he had been present.

"... There was a boat..."

     Of course there had been a boat; Harry knew the boat, ghostly green and 
tiny, bewitched so as to carry one wizard and one victim toward the island in 
the center. This, then, was how Voldemort had tested the defenses surrounding 
the Horcrux, by borrowing a disposable creature, a house-elf...

     "There was a b-basin full of potion on the island. The D-Dark Lord made 
Kreacher drink it..."

The elf quaked from head to foot.

     "Kreacher drank, and as he drank he saw terrible thing ... Kreacher's insides 
burned ... Kreacher cried for Master Regulus to save him, he cried for his Mistress 
Black, but the Dark Lord only laughed ... He made Kreacher drink all the potion ... He 
dropped a locket into the empty basin ... He filled it with more potion."

"And then the Dark Lord sailed away, leaving Kreacher on the island ..."

     Harry could see it happening. He watched Voldemort's white, snakelike face 
vanishing into darkness, those red eyes fixed pitilessly on the thrashing elf 
whose death would occur within minutes, whenever he succumbed to the desperate 
thirst that the burning poison caused its victim ... But here, Harry's 
imagination could go no further, for he could not see how Kreacher had escaped.

     "Kreacher needed water, he crawled to the island's edge and he drank from the 
black lake ... and hands, dead hands, came out of the water and dragged Kreacher under 
the surface ..."

     "How did you get away?" Harry asked, and he was not surprised to hear 
himself whispering.

Kreacher raised his ugly head and looked Harry with his great, bloodshot eyes.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," he said.

"I know - but how did you escape the Inferi?"

Kreacher did not seem to understand.

"Master Regulus told Kreacher to come back," he repeated.

"I know, but - "

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it, Harry?" said Ron. "He Disapparated!"

     "But... you couldn't Apparate in and out of that cave," said Harry, "otherwise 
Dumbledore - "

     "Elf magic isn't like wizard's magic, is it?" said Ron, "I mean, they can 
Apparate and Disapparate in and out of Hogwarts when we can't."

     There was a silence as Harry digested this. How could Voldemort have made 
such a mistake? But even as he thought this, Hermione spoke, and her voice was 

     "Of course, Voldemort would have considered the ways of house-elves far beneath 
his notice ... It would never have occurred to him that they might have magic that he 

     "The house-elf s highest law is his Master's bidding," intoned Kreacher. 
"Kreacher was told to come home, so Kreacher came home ..."

     "Well, then, you did what you were told, didn't you?" said Hermione kindly. 
"You didn't disobey orders at all!"

Kreacher shook his head, rocking as fast as ever.

     "So what happened when you got back?" Harry asked. "What did Regulus say when 
you told him what happened?"

     "Master Regulus was very worried, very worried," croaked Kreacher. "Master 
Regulus told Kreacher to stay hidden and not to leave the house. And then ... it was a little while 
later ... Master Regulus came to find Kreacher in his cupboard one night, and Master Regulus was 
strange, not as he usually was, disturbed in his mind, Kreacher could tell ... and he asked 
Kreacher to take him to the cave, the cave where Kreacher had gone with the Dark Lord ..."

     And so they had set off. Harry could visualize them quite clearly, the 
frightened old elf and the thin, dark Seeker who had so resembled Sirius ... 
Kreacher knew how to open the concealed entrance to the underground cavern, 
knew how to raise the tiny boat: this time it was his beloved Regulus who 
sailed with him to the island with its basin of poison ...

"And he made you drink the poison?" said Harry, disgusted.

     But Kreacher shook his head and wept. Hermione's hands leapt to her mouth: 
She seemed to have understood something.

     "M-Master Regulus took from his pocket a locket like the one the Dark Lord had," 
said Kreacher, tears pouring down either side of his snoutlike nose. "And he told Kreacher to 
take it and, when the basin was empty, to switch the lockets ..."

     Kreacher's sobs came in great rasps now; Harry had to concentrate hard to 
understand him.

     "And he order - Kreacher to leave - without him. And he told Kreacher - to go 
home - and never to tell my Mistress - what he had done - but to destroy - the first 
locket. And he drank - all the potion - and Kreacher swapped the lockets - and watched 
... as Master Regulus ... was dragged beneath the water ... and ..."

     "Oh, Kreacher!" wailed Hermione, who was crying. She dropped to her knees 
beside the elf and tried to hug him. At once he was on his feet, cringing away from her, 
quite obviously repulsed.

     "The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress 

     "I told you not to call her 'Mudblood'!" snarled Harry, but the elf was 
already punishing himself. He fell to the ground and banged his forehead on the floor.

     "Stop him - stop him!" Hermione cried. "Oh, don't you see now how sick it is, 
the way they've got to obey?"

"Kreacher - stop, stop!" shouted Harry.

     The elf lay on the floor, panting and shivering, green mucus glistening 
around his snot, a bruise already blooming on his pallid forehead where he had 
struck himself, his eyes swollen and bloodshot and swimming in tears. Harry had 
never seen anything so pitiful.

     "So you brought the locket home," he said relentlessly, for he was determined to 
know the full story. "And you tried to destroy it?"

     "Nothing Kreacher did made any mark upon it," moaned the elf. "Kreacher tried 
everything, everything he knew, but nothing, nothing would work ... So many powerful spells upon 
the casing, Kreacher was sure the way to destroy it was to get inside it, but it would not open ... 
Kreacher punished himself, he tried again, he punished himself, he tried again. Kreacher failed to 
obey orders, Kreacher could not destroy the locket! And his mistress was mad with grief, because 
Master Regulus had disappeared and Kreacher could not tell her what had happened, no, because 
Master Regulus had f-f-forbidden him to tell any of the f-f-family what happened in the c-cave 

     Kreacher began to sob so hard that there were no more coherent words. 
Tears flowed down Hermione's cheeks as she watched Kreacher, but she did not 
dare touch him again. Even Ron, who was no fan of Kreacher's, looked troubled. 
Harry sat back on his heels and shook his head, trying to clear it.

     "I don't understand you, Kreacher," he said finally. "Voldemort tried to kill 
you, Regulus died to bring Voldemort down, but you were still happy to betray Sirius to Voldemort? 
You were happy to go to Narcissa and Bellatrix, and pass information to Voldemort through them 

     "Harry, Kreacher doesn't think like that," said Hermione, wiping her eyes on the back of her hand. 
"He's a slave; house-elves are used to bad, even brutal treatment; what Voldemort did to Kreacher wasn't that 
far out of the common way. What do wizard wars mean to an elf like Kreacher? He's loyal to people who are kind to 
him, and Mrs. Black must have been, and Regulus certainly was, so he served them willingly and parroted their 
beliefs. I know what you're going to say," she went on as Harry began to protest, "that Regulus changed 
his mind ... but he doesn't seem to have explained that to Kreacher, does he?" And I think I know why. 
Kreacher and Regulus's family were all safest if they kept to the old pure-blood line. Regulus was trying to 
protect them all."


     "Sirius was horrible to Kreacher, Harry, and it's no good looking like that, 
you know it's true. Kreacher had been alone for such a long time when Sirius came to live 
here, and he was probably starving for a bit of affection. I'm sure 'Miss Cissy' and 
'Miss Bella' were perfectly lovely to Kreacher when he turned up, so he did them a favor 
and told them everything they wanted to know. I've said all along that wizards would pay 
for how they treat house-elves. Well, Voldemort did ... and so did Sirius."

     Harry had no retort. As he watched Kreacher sobbing on the floor, he 
remembered what Dumbledore had said to him, mere hours after Sirius's death: I 
do not think Sirius ever saw Kreacher as a being with feelings as acute as a 
human's ...

"Kreacher," said Harry after a while, "when you feel up to it, er ... please sit 

     It was several minutes before Kreacher hiccupped himself into silence. 
Then he pushed himself into a sitting position again, rubbing his knuckles into 
his eyes like a small child.

     "Kreacher, I am going to ask you to do something," said Harry. He glanced 
at Hermione for assistance. He wanted to give the order kindly, but at the same time, he 
could not pretend that it was not an order. However, the change in his tone seemed to 
have gained her approval: She smiled encouragingly.

     "Kreacher, I want you, please, to go and find Mundungus Fletcher. We need 
to find out where the locket - where Master Regulus's locket it. It's really 
important. We

want to finish the work Master Regulus started, we want to - er - ensure that he 
didn't die in vain."

Kreacher dropped his fists and looked up at Harry.

"Find Mundungus Fletcher?" he croaked.

     And bring him here, to Grimmauld Place," said Harry. "Do you think you could do 
that for us?"

     As Kreacher nodded and got to his feet, Harry had a sudden inspiration. He 
pulled out Hagrid's purse and took out the fake Horcrux, the substitute locket 
in which Regulus had placed the note to Voldemort.

     "Kreacher, I'd, er, like you to have this," he said, pressing the locket into the 
elf s hand. "This belonged to Regulus and I'm sure he'd want you to have it as a token of 
gratitude for what you?"

     "Overkill, mate," said Ron as the elf took one look at the locket, let out 
a howl of shock and misery, and threw himself back onto the ground.

     It took them nearly half an hour to calm down Kreacher, who was so 
overcome to be presented with a Black family heirloom for his very own that he 
was too weak at the knees to stand properly. When finally he was able to totter 
a few steps they all accompanied him to his cupboard, watched him tuck up the 
locket safely in his dirty blankets, and assured him that they would make its 
protection their first priority while he was away. He then made two low bows to 
Harry and Ron, and even gave a funny little spasm in Hermione's direction that 
might have been an attempt at a respectful salute, before Disapparating with 
the usual loud crack.

Chapter Eleven The Bribe

     If Kreacher could escape a lake full of Inferi, Harry was confident that 
the capture of Mundungus would take a few hours at most, and he prowled the 
house all morning in a state of high anticipation. However, Kreacher did not 
return that morning or even that afternoon. By nightfall, Harry felt 
discouraged and anxious, and a supper composed largely of moldy bread, upon 
which Hermione had tried a variety of unsuccessful Transfigurations, did 
nothing to help.

     Kreacher did not return the following day, nor the day after that. 
However, two cloaked men had appeared in the square outside number twelve, and 
they remained there into the night, gazing in the direction of the house that 
they could not see.

     "Death Eaters, for sure," said Ron, as he, Harry, and Hermione watched from the 
drawing room windows. "Reckon they know we're in here?"

     "I don't think so," said Hermione, though she looked frightened, "or they'd 
have sent Snape in after us, wouldn't they?"

     "D'you reckon he's been in here and has his tongue tied by Moody's curse?" 
asked Ron.

     "Yes," said Hermione, "otherwise he'd have been able to tell that lot how to 
get in, wouldn't he? But they're probably watching to see whether we turn up. They know that Harry 
owns the house, after all."

"How do they --?" began Harry.

     "Wizarding wills are examined by the Ministry, remember? They'll know Sirius 
left you the place."

     The presence of the Death Eaters outside increased the ominous mood inside 
number twelve. They had not heard a word form anyone beyond Grimmauld Place 
since Mr. Weasley's Patronus, and the strain was starting to tell. Restless and 
irritable, Ron had developed an annoying habit of playing with the Deluminator 
in his pocket; This particularly infuriated Hermione, who was whiling away the 
wait for Kreacher by studying The Tales ofBeedle the Bard and did not 
appreciate the way the lights kept flashing on and off.

     "Will you stop it!" she cried on the third evening of Kreacher's absence, 
as all the light was sucked from the drawing room yet again.

     "Sorry, sorry!" said Ron, clicking the Deluminator and restoring the lights. "I 
don't know I'm doing it!"

"Well, can't you find something useful to occupy yourself?"

"What, like reading kids' stories?"

"Dumbledore left me this book, Ron -"

"?and he left me the Deluminator, maybe I'm supposed to use it!"

     Unable to stand the bickering, Harry slipped out of the room unnoticed by 
either of them. He headed downstairs toward the kitchen, which he kept visiting 
because he was sure that was where Kreacher was most likely to reappear. 
Halfway down the flight of stairs into the hall, however, he heard a tap on the 
front door, then metallic clicks and the grinding of the chain.

     Every nerve in his body seemed to tauten: He pulled out his wand, moved into the 
shadows beside the decapitated elf heads, and waited. The door opened: He saw a glimpse 
of the lamplit square outside, and a cloaked figure edged into the hall and closed the 
door behind it. The intruder took a step forward, and Moody's voice asked, "Severus 
Snape?" Then the dust figure rose from the end of the hall and rushed him, raising 
its dead hand.

"It was not I who killed you, Albus," said a quiet voice.

     The jinx broke: The dust-figure exploded again, and it was impossible to 
make out the newcomer through the dense gray cloud it left behind.

Harry pointed the wand into the middle of it.

"Don't move!"

     He had forgotten the portrait of Mrs. Black: At the sound of his yell, the curtains 
hiding her flew open and she began to scream, "Mudbloods and filth dishonoring my 
house -"

     Ron and Hermione came crashing down the stairs behind Harry, wands 
pointing, like his, at the unknown man now standing with his arms raised in the 
hall below.

"Hold your fire, it's me, Remus!"

     "Oh, thank goodness," said Hermione weakly, pointing her wand at Mrs. 
Black instead; with a bang, the curtains swished shut again and silence fell. Ron too 
lowered his wand, but Harry did not.

"Show yourself!" he called back.

     Lupin moved forward into the lamplight, hands still held high in a gesture 
of surrender.

     "I am Remus John Lupin, werewolf, sometimes known as Moony, one of the four 
creators of the Marauder's Map, married to Nymphadora, usually known as Tonks, and I 
taught you how to produce a Patronus, Harry, which takes the form of a stag."

"Oh, all right," said Harry, lowering his wand, "but I had to check, didn't I?"

     "Speaking as your ex-Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, I quite agree that 
you had to check. Ron, Hermione, you shouldn't be so quick to lower your defenses."

     They ran down the stairs towards him. Wrapped in a thick black traveling 
cloak, he looked exhausted, but pleased to see them.

"No sign of Severus, then?" he asked.

"No," said Harry. "What's going on? Is everyone okay?'

     "Yes," said Lupin, "but we're all being watched. There are a couple of Death 
Eaters in the square outside -"

"We know -"

     "I had to Apparate very precisely onto the top step outside the front door to 
be sure that they would not see me. They can't know you're in here or I'm sure they'd 
have more people out there; they're staking out everywhere that's got any connection with 
you, Harry. Let's go downstairs, there's a lot to tell you, and I want to know what 
happened after you left the Burrow."

     They descended into the kitchen, where Hermione pointed her wand at the 
grate. A fire sprang up instantly: It gave the illusion of coziness to the 
stark stone walls and glistened off the long wooden table. Lupin pulled a few 
butterbeers from beneath his traveling cloak and they sat down.

     "I'd have been here three days ago but I needed to shake off the Death Eater tailing 
me," said Lupin. "So, you came straight here after the wedding?"

     "No," said Harry, "only after we ran into a couple of Death Eaters in a cafe on 
Tottenham Court Road."

Lupin slopped most of his butterbeer down his front.


They explained what had happened; when they had finished, Lupin looked aghast.

     "But how did they find you so quickly? It's impossible to track anyone who 
Apparates, unless you grab hold of them as they disappear."

     "And it doesn't seem likely they were just strolling down Tottenham Court Road 
at the time, does it?" said Harry.

     "We wondered," said Hermione tentatively, "whether Harry could still have the 
Trace on him?"

     "Impossible," said Lupin. Ron looked smug, and Harry felt hugely relieved. 
"Apart from anything else, they'd know for sure Harry was here if he still had the Trace on 
him, wouldn't they? But I can't see how they could have tracked you to Tottenham Court Road, that's 
worrying, really worrying."

He looked disturbed, but as far as Harry was concerned, that question could 

     "Tell us what happened after we left, we haven't heard a thing since Ron's dad 
told us the family was safe."

     "Well, Kingsley saved us," said Lupin. "Thanks to his warning most of the 
wedding guests were able to Disapparate before they arrived."

"Were they Death Eaters or Ministry people?" interjected Hermione.

     "A mixture; but to all intents and purposes they're the same thing now," said Lupin. 
"There were about a dozen of them, but they didn't know you were there, Harry. Arthur heard a 
rumor that they tried to torture your whereabouts out of Scrimgeour before they killed him; if it's 
true, he didn't give you away."

     Harry looked at Ron and Hermione; their expressions reflected the mingled 
shock and gratitude he felt. He had never liked Scrimgeour much, but if what 
Lupin said was true, the man's final act had been to try to protect Harry.

     "The Death Eaters searched the Burrow from top to bottom," Lupin went on. 
"They found the ghoul, but didn't want to get too close - and then they interrogated 
those of us who remained for hours. They were trying to get information on you, Harry, but of 
course nobody apart from the Order knew that you had been there.

     "At the same time that they were smashing up the wedding, more Death Eaters were forcing 
their way into every Order-connected house in the country. No deaths," he added quickly, 
forestalling the question, "but they were rough. They burned down Dedalus Diggle's house, but 
as you know he wasn't there, and they used the Cruciarus Curse on Tonks's family. Again, trying to 
find out where you went after you visited them. They're all right - shaken, obviously, but 
otherwise okay."

"The Death Eaters got through all those protective charms?"

     Harry asked, remembering how effective these had been on the night he had 
crashed in Tonks's parents' garden.

     "What you've got to realize, Harry, is that the Death Eaters have got the full might of 
the Ministry on their side now," said Lupin. "They've got the power to perform brutal 
spells without fear of identification or arrest. They managed to penetrate every defensive spell 
we'd cast against them, and once inside, they were completely open about why they'd come."

     "And are they bothering to give an excuse for torturing Harry's whereabouts out 
of people?" asked Hermione, an edge to her voice.

     "Well," Lupin said. He hesitated, then pulled out a folded copy of the 
Daily Prophet.

     "Here," he said, pushing it across the table to Harry, "you'll know sooner or 
later anyway. That's their pretext for going after you."

     Harry smoothed out the paper. A huge photograph of his own face filled the 
front page. He read the headline over it:


     Ron and Hermione gave roars of outrage, but Harry said nothing. He pushed 
the newspaper away; he did not want to read anymore: He knew what it would say. 
Nobody but those who had been on top of the tower when Dumbledore died knew who 
had really killed him and, as Rita Skeeter had already told the Wizarding 
world, Harry had been seen running from the place moments after Dumbledore had 

"I'm sorry, Harry," Lupin said.

     "So Death Eaters have taken over the Daily Prophet too?" asked Hermione 

Lupin nodded.

"But surely people realize what's going on?"

"The coup has been smooth and virtually silent," said Lupin.

     "The official version of Scrimgeour's murder is that he resigned; he has been 
replaced by Pius Thicknesse, who is under the Imperius Curse."

"Why didn't Voldemort declare himself Minister of Magic?" asked Ron.

Lupin laughed.

     "He doesn't need to, Ron. Effectively, he is the Minister, but why should 
he sit behind a desk at the Ministry? His puppet, Thicknesse, is taking care of 
everyday business, leaving Voldemort free to extend his power beyond the Ministry.

     "Naturally many people have deduced what has happened: There has been such a 
dramatic change in Ministry policy in the last few days, and many are whispering that 
Voldemort must be behind it. However, that is the point: They whisper. They daren't 
confide in each other, not knowing whom to trust; they are scared to speak out, in case 
their suspicions are true and their families are targeted. Yes, Voldemort is playing a 
very clever game. Declaring himself might have provoked open rebellion: Remaining masked 
has created confusion, uncertainty, and fear."

     "And this dramatic change in Ministry policy," said Harry, "involves warning 
the Wizarding world against me instead of Voldemort?"

     "That's certainly a part of it," said Lupin, "and it is a masterstroke. 
Now that Dumbledore is dead, you - the Boy Who Lived - were sure to be the symbol and rallying 
point for any resistance to Voldemort. But by suggesting that you had a hand in the old hat's 
death, Voldemort has not only set a price upon your head, but sown doubt and fear amongst many 
who would have defended you.

"Meanwhile, the Ministry has started moving against Muggle-borns."

Lupin pointed at the Daily Prophet.

"Look at page two."

     Hermione turned the pages with much the same expression of distaste she 
had when handling Secrets of the Darkest Art.

     "Muggle-born Register!" she read aloud. "'The Ministry of Magic is undertaking a 
survey of so-called "Muggle-borns" the better to understand how they came to possess magical 

     "'Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that 
magic can only be passed from person to person when Wizards reproduce. Where no 
proven Wizarding ancestry exists, therefore, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to 
have obtained magical power by theft or force.

     "'The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to 
this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves 
for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-born Registration Commission.'"

"People won't let this happen," said Ron.

     "It is happening, Ron," said Lupin. "Muggle-borns are being rounded up as we 

     "But how are they supposed to have 'stolen' magic?" said Ron. "It's mental, if 
you could steal magic there wouldn't be any Squibs, would there?"

     "I know," said Lupin. "Nevertheless, unless you can prove that you have at 
least one close Wizarding relative, you are now deemed to have obtained your magical power 
illegally and must suffer the punishment."

     Ron glanced at Hermione, then said, "What if purebloods and halfbloods swear a 
Muggle-born's part of their family? I'll tell everyone Hermione's my cousin -"

Hermione covered Ron's hand with hers and squeezed it.

"Thank you, Ron, but I couldn't let you -"

     "You won't have a choice," said Ron fiercely, gripping her hand back. "I'll 
teach you my family tree so you can answer questions on it."

Hermione gave a shaky laugh.

     "Ron, as we're on the run with Harry Potter, the most wanted person in the 
country, I don't think it matters. If I was going back to school it would be different. 
What's Voldemort planning for Hogwarts?" she asked Lupin.

     "Attendance is now compulsory for every young witch and wizard," he replied. 
"That was announced yesterday. It's a change, because it was never obligatory before. Of 
course, nearly every witch and wizard in Britain has been educated at Hogwarts, but their parents 
had the right to teach them at home or send them abroad if they preferred. This way, Voldemort will 
have the whole Wizarding population under his eye from a young age. And it's also another way of 
weeding out Muggle-borns, because students must be given Blood Status - meaning that they have 
proven to the Ministry that they are of Wizard descent - before they are allowed to attend."

     Harry felt sickened and angry: At this moment, excited eleven-year-olds 
would be poring over stacks of newly purchased spell-books, unaware that they 
would never see Hogwarts, perhaps never see their families again either.

     "It's ... it's .. ." he muttered, struggling to find words that did 
justice to the horror of his thoughts, but Lupin said quietly,

"I know."

Lupin hesitated.

     I'll understand if you can't confirm this, Harry, but the Order is under the 
impression that Dumbledore left you a mission."

     "He did," Harry replied, "and Ron and Hermione are in on it and they're coming 
with me."

"Can you confide in me what the mission is?"

     Harry looked into the prematurely lined face, framed in thick but graying 
hair, and wished that he could return a different answer.

"I can't, Remus, I'm sorry. If Dumbledore didn't tell you I don't think I can."

     "I thought you'd say that," said Lupin, looking disappointed. "But I might 
still be of some use to you. You know what I am and what I can do. I could come with you to provide 
protection. There would be no need to tell me exactly what you were up to."

     Harry hesitated. It was a very tempting offer, though how they would be 
able to keep their mission secret from Lupin if he were with them all the time 
he could not imagine.

Hermione, however, looked puzzled.

"But what about Tonks?" she asked.

"What about her?" said Lupin.

     "Well," said Hermione, frowning, "you're married! How does she feel about you 
going away with us?"

"Tonks will be perfectly safe," said Lupin, "She'll be at her parents' house."

     There was something strange in Lupin's tone, it was almost cold. There was 
also something odd in the idea of Tonks remaining hidden at her parents' house; 
she was, after all, a member of the Order and, as far as Harry knew, was likely 
to want to be in the thick of the action.

     "Remus," said Hermione tentatively, "is everything all right. . . you know . . 
. between you and - "

"Everything is fine, thank you," said Lupin pointedly.

     Hermione turned pink. There was another pause, an awkward and embarrassed one, and 
then Lupin said, with an air of forcing himself to admit something unpleasant, 
"Tonks is going to have a baby."

"Oh, how wonderful!" squealed Hermione.

"Excellent!" said Ron enthusiastically.

"Congratulations," said Harry.

     Lupin gave an artificial smile that was more like a grimace, then said, "So ... 
do you accept my offer? Will three become four? I cannot believe that Dumbledore would 
have disapproved, he appointed me your Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, after all. 
And I must tell you that I believe we are facing magic many of us have never encountered 
or imagined."

Ron and Hermione both looked at Harry.

     "Just -just to be clear," he said. "You want to leave Tonks at her parents' 
house and come away with us?"

     "She'll be perfectly safe there, they'll look after her," said Lupin. He spoke with 
a finality bordering on indifference: "Harry, I'm sure James would have wanted me to stick 
with you."

     "Well," said Harry slowly, "I'm not. I'm pretty sure my father would have 
wanted to know why you aren't sticking with your own kid, actually."

     Lupin's face drained of color. The temperature in the kitchen might have 
dropped ten degrees. Ron stared around the room as though he had been bidden to 
memorize it, while Hermione's eyes swiveled backward and forward from Harry to 

"You don't understand," said Lupin at last.

"Explain, then," said Harry.

Lupin swallowed.

     "I - I made a grave mistake in marrying Tonks. I did it against my better 
judgment and have regretted it very much every since."

     "I see," said Harry, "so you're just going to dump her and the kid and run off 
with us?"

     Lupin sprang to his feet: His chair toppled over backward, and he glared 
at them so fiercely that Harry saw, for the first time ever, she shadow of the 
wolf upon his human face.

     "Don't you understand what I've done to my wife and my unborn child? I should 
never have married her, I've made her an outcast!"

Lupin kicked aside the chair he had overturned.

     "You have only ever seen me amongst the Order, or under Dumbledore's 
protection at Hogwarts! You don't know how most of the Wizarding world sees 
creatures like me! When they know of my affliction, they can barely talk to me! 
Don't you see what I've done?

     Even her own family is disgusted by our marriage, what parents want their only 
daughter to marry a werewolf? And the child - the child - "

Lupin actually seized handfuls of his own hair; he looked quite deranged.

     "My kind don't usually breed! It will be like me, I am convinced of it - how 
can I forgive myself, when I knowingly risked passing on my own condition to an innocent 
child? And if, by some miracle, it is not like me, then it will be better off, a hundred 
times so, without a father of whom it must always be ashamed!"

     "Remus!" whispered Hermione, tears in her eyes. "Don't say that - how could any 
child be ashamed of you?"

"Oh, I don't know, Hermione," said Harry. "I'd be pretty ashamed of him."

     Harry did not know where his rage was coming from, but it had propelled 
him to his feet too. Lupin looked as though Harry had hit him.

     "If the new regime thinks Muggle-borns are bad," Harry said, "what will they do 
to a half-werewolf whose father's in the Order? My father died trying to protect my mother and me, 
and you reckon he'd tell you to abandon your kid to go on an adventure with us?"

     "How - how dare you?" said Lupin. "This is not about a desire for - for danger 
or personal glory - how dare you suggest such a - "

     "I think you're feeling a bit of a daredevil," Harry said, "You fancy stepping 
into Sirius's shoes-"

     "Harry, no!" Hermione begged him, but he continued to glare into Lupin's 
livid face.

     "I'd never have believed this," Harry said. "The man who taught me to fight 
dementors - a coward."

     Lupin drew his wand so fast that Harry had barely reached for his own; 
there was a loud bang and he felt himself flying backward as if punched; as he 
slammed into the kitchen wall and slid to the floor, he glimpsed the tail of 
Lupin's cloak disappearing around the door.

     "Remus, Remus, come back!" Hermione cried, but Lupin did not respond. A 
moment later they heard the front door slam.

"Harry!" wailed Hermione. "How could you?"

     "It was easy," said Harry. He stood up, he could feel a lump swelling 
where his head had hit the wall. He was still so full of anger he was shaking.

"Don't look at me like that!" he snapped at Hermione.

"Don't you start on her!" snarled Ron.

"No - no - we mustn't fight!" said Hermione, launching herself between them.

"You shouldn't have said that stuff to Lupin," Ron told Harry.

     "He had it coming to him," said Harry. Broken images were racing each 
other through his mind: Sirius falling through the veil; Dumbledore suspended, broken, in 
midair; a flash of green light and his mother's voice, begging for mercy . . .

"Parents," said Harry, "shouldn't leave their kids unless - unless they've got 

     "Harry -" said Hermione, stretching out a consoling hand, but he shrugged 
it off and walked away, his eyes on the fire Hermione had conjured. He had once spoken to 
Lupin out of that fireplace, seeking reassurance about James, and Lupin had consoled him. 
Now Lupin's tortured white face seemed to swim in the air before him. He felt a

sickening surge of remorse. Neither Ron nor Hermione spoke, but Harry felt sure 
that they were looking at each other behind his back, communicating silently.

He turned around and caught them turning hurriedly away form each other.

"I know I shouldn't have called him a coward."

"No, you shouldn't," said Ron at once.

"But he's acting like one."

"All the same . . ." said Hermione.

     "I know," said Harry. "But if it makes him go back to Tonks, it'll be worth it, 
won't it?"

     He could not keep the plea out of his voice. Hermione looked sympathetic, 
Ron uncertain. Harry looked down at his feet, thinking of his father. Would 
James have backed Harry in what he had said to Lupin, or would he have been 
angry at how his son had treated his old friend?

     The silent kitchen seemed to hum with the shock of the recent scene and 
with Ron and Hermione's unspoken reproaches. The Daily Prophet Lupin had 
brought was still lying on the table, Harry's own face staring up at the 
ceiling from the front page. He walked over to it and sat down, opened the 
paper at random, and pretended to read. He could not take in the words; his 
mind was still too full of the encounter with Lupin. He was sure that Ron and 
Hermione had resumed their silent communications on the other side of the 
Prophet. He turned a page loudly, and Dumbledore's name leapt out at him. It 
was a moment or two before he took in the meaning of the photograph, which 
showed a family group. Beneath the photograph were the words: The Dumbledore 
family, left to right: Albus; Percival, holding newborn Ariana; Kendra, and 

     His attention caught, Harry examined the picture more carefully. 
Dumbledore's father, Percival, was a good-looking man with eyes that seemed to 
twinkle even in this faded old photograph. The baby, Ariana, was a little 
longer than a loaf of bread and no more distinctive-looking. The mother, 
Kendra, had jet black hair pulled into a high bun. Her face had a carved 
quality about it. Harry thought of photos of Native Americans he'd seen as he 
studied her dark eyes, high cheekbones, and straight nose, formally composed 
above a high-necked silk gown. Albus and Aberforth wore matching lacy collared 
jackets and had identical, shoulder-length hairstyles. Albus looked several 
years older, but otherwise the two boys looked very alike, for this was before 
Albus's nose had been broken and before he started wearing glasses.

     The family looked quite happy and normal, smiling serenely up out of the 
newspaper. Baby Ariana's arm waved vaguely out of her shawl. Harry looked above 
the picture and saw the headline:



by Rita Skeeter

     Thinking it could hardly make him feel any worse than he already did, 
Harry began to read:

Proud and haughty, Kendra Dumbledore could not bear to remain in 
Mould-on-the-Wold after her husband Percival's well-publicized arrest and 
imprisonment in Azkaban. She therefore decided to uproot the family and 
relocate to Godric's Hollow, the village that was later to gain fame as the 
scene of Harry Potter's strange escape from You-Know-Who.

  Like Mould-on-the-Wold, Godric's Hollow was home to a number of Wizarding 
families, but as Kendra knew none of them, she would be spared the curiosity 
about her husband's crime she had faced in her former village. By repeatedly 
rebuffing the friendly advances of her new Wizarding neighbors, she soon 
ensured that her family was left well alone.

  "Slammed the door in my face when I went around to welcome her with a batch of homemade 
Cauldron Cakes," says Bathilda Bagshot. "The first year they were there I only ever saw 
the two boys. Wouldn't have known there was a daughter if I hadn't been picking Plangentines by 
moonlight the winter after they moved in, and saw Kendra leading Ariana out into the back garden. 
Walked her round the lawn once, keeping a firm grip on her, then took her back inside. Didn't know 
what to make of it."

  It seems that Kendra thought the move to Godric's Hollow was the perfect opportunity to 
hide Ariana once and for all, something she had probably been planning for years. The 
timing was significant. Ariana was barely seven years old when she vanished from sight, 
and seven is the age by which most experts agree that magic will have revealed itself, if 
present. Nobody now alive remembers Ariana ever demonstrating even the slightest sign of 
magical ability. It seems clear, therefore, that Kendra made a decision to hide her 
daughter's existence rather than suffer the shame of admitting that she had produced a 
Squib. Moving away from the friends and neighbors who knew Ariana would, of course, make 
imprisoning her all the easier. The tiny number of people who henceforth knew of Ariana's 
existence could be counted upon to keep the secret, including her two brothers, who had 
deflected awkward questions with the answer their mother had taught them. "My sister 
is too frail for school."

Next week: Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts - the Prizes and the Pretense.

     Harry had been wrong: What he had read had indeed made him feel worse. He 
looked back at the photograph of the apparently happy family. Was it true? How 
could he find out? He wanted to go to Godric's Hollow, even if Bathilda was in 
no fit state to talk to him: he wanted to visit the place where he and 
Dumbledore had both lost loved ones. He was in the process of lowering the 
newspaper, to ask Ron's and Hermione's opinions, when a deafening crack echoed 
around the kitchen.

     For the first time in three days Harry had forgotten all about Kreacher. His 
immediate thought was that Lupin had burst back into the room, and for a split second, he 
did not take in the mass of struggling limbs that had appeared out of thin air right 
beside his chair. He hurried to his feet as Kreacher disentangled himself and, bowing low 
to Harry, croaked, "Kreacher has returned with the thief Mundungus Fletcher, 

     Mundungus scrambled up and pulled out his wand; Hermione, however, was too 
quick for him.


     Mundungus's wand soared into the air, and Hermione caught it. Wild-eyed, 
Mundungus dived for the stairs. Ron rugby-tackled him and Mundungus hit the 
stone floor with a muffled crunch.

     "What?" he bellowed, writhing in his attempts to free himself from Ron's grip. 
"Wha've I done? Setting a bleedin' 'house-elf on me, what are you playing at, wha've I done, 
lemme go, lemme go, of- "

     "You're not in much of a position to make threats," said Harry. He threw 
aside the newspaper, crossed the kitchen in a few strides, and dropped to his knees 
beside Mundungus, who stopped struggling and looked terrified. Ron got up, panting, and 
watched as Harry pointed his wand deliberately at Mundungus's nose. Mundungus stank of 
stale sweat and tobacco smoke. His hair was matted and his robes stained.

     "Kreacher apologizes for the delay in bringing the thief, Master," croaked the elf. 
"Fletcher knows how to avoid capture, has many hidey-holes and accomplices. Nevertheless, 
Kreacher cornered the thief in the end."

"You've done really well, Kreacher," said Harry, and the elf bowed low.

     "Right, we've got a few questions for you," Harry told Mundungus, who 
shouted at once.

     "I panicked, okay? I never wanted to come along, no offense, mate, but I never 
volunteered to die for you, an' that was bleedin' You-Know-Who come flying at me, anyone 
woulda got outta there. I said all along I didn't wanna do it -"

"For your information, none of the rest of us Disapparated," said Hermione.

     "Well, you're a bunch of bleedin' 'eroes then, aren't you, but I never 
pretended I was up for killing meself-"

     "We're not interested in why you ran out on Mad-Eye," said Harry, moving his wand a 
little closer to Mundungus's baggy, bloodshot eyes. "We already knew you were an unreliable 
bit of scum."

     "Well then, why the 'ell am I being 'unted down by 'ouse-elves? Or is this 
about them goblets again? I ain't got none of 'em left, or you could 'ave 'em -"

     "It's not about the goblets either, although you're getting warmer," said Harry. 
"Shut up and listen."

     It felt wonderful to have something to do, someone of whom he could demand 
some small portion of truth. Harry's wand was now so close to the bridge of 
Mundungus's nose that Mundungus had gone cross-eyed trying to keep it in view.

     "When you cleaned out this house of anything valuable," Harry began, but 
Mundungus interrupted him again.

"Sirius never cared about any of the junk -"

     There was the sound of pattering fee, a blaze of shining copper, an 
echoing clang, and a shriek of agony; Kreacher had taken a run at Mundungus and 
hit him over the head with a saucepan.

     "Call 'im off, call 'im off, 'e should be locked up!" screamed Mundungus, 
cowering as Kreacher raised the heavy-bottomed pan again.

"Kreacher, no!" shouted Harry.

Kreacher's thin arms trembled with the weight of the pan, still held aloft.

"Perhaps just one more, Master Harry, for luck?"

Ron laughed.

     "We need him conscious, Kreacher, but if he needs persuading, you can do the 
honors," said Harry.

     "Thank you very much, Master," said Kreacher with a bow, and he retreated 
a short distance, his great pale eyes still fixed upon Mundungus with loathing.

     "When you stripped this house of all the valuables you could find," Harry began again, 
"you took a bunch of stuff from the kitchen cupboard. There was a locket there." Harry's mouth was 
suddenly dry: He could sense Ron and Hermione's tension and excitement too. "What did you do with 

"Why?" asked Mundungus. "Is it valuable?"

"You've still got it!" cried Hermione.

     "No, he hasn't," said Ron shrewdly. "He's wondering whether he should have 
asked more money for it."

     "More?" said Mundungus. "That wouldn't have been effing difficult. . .bleedin' 
gave it away, di'n' I? No choice."

"What do you mean?"

     "I was selling in Diagon Alley and she come up to me and asks if I've got a 
license for trading in magical artifacts. Bleedin' snoop. She was gonna fine me, but she 
took a fancy to the locket an' told me she'd take it and let me off that time, and to 
fink meself lucky."

"Who was this woman?" asked Harry.

"I dunno, some Ministry hag."

Mundungus considered for a moment, brow wrinkled.

"Little woman. Bow on top of 'er head."

He frowned and then added, "Looked like a toad."

     Harry dropped his wand: It hit Mundungus on the nose and shot red sparks 
into his eyebrows, which ignited.

     "Aquamenti!" screamed Hermione, and a jet of water streamed from her wand, 
engulfing a spluttering and choking Mundungus.

     Harry looked up and saw his own shock reflected in Ron's and Hermione's 
faces. The scars on the back of his right hand seemed to be tingling again.

Chapter Twelve Magic is Might

     As August wore on, the square of unkempt grass in the middle of Grimmauld 
Place shriveled in the sun until it was brittle and brown. The inhabitants of 
number twelve were never seen by anyone in the surrounding houses, and nor was 
number twelve itself. The muggles who lived in Grimmauld Place had long since 
accepted the amusing mistake in the numbering that had caused number eleven to 
sit beside number thirteen.

     And yet the square was now attracting a trickle of visitors who seemed to 
find the anomaly most intriguing. Barely a day passed without one or two people 
arriving in Grimmauld Place with no other purpose, or so it seemed, than to 
lean against the railings facing numbers eleven and thirteen, watching the join 
between the two houses. The lurkers were never the same two days running, 
although they all seemed to share a dislike

for normal clothing. Most of the Londoners who passed them were used to 
eccentric dressers and took little notice, though occasionally one of them 
might glance back, wondering why anyone would wear cloaks in this heat.

     The watchers seemed to be gleaning little satisfaction from their vigil. 
Occasionally one of them started forward excitedly, as if they had seen 
something interesting at last, only to fall back looking disappointed.

     On the first day of September there were more people lurking in the square 
than ever before. Half a dozen men in long cloaks stood silent and watchful, 
gazing as ever at houses eleven and thirteen, but the thing for which they were 
waiting still appeared elusive. As evening drew in, bringing with it an 
unexpected gust of chilly rain for the first time in weeks, there occurred one 
of those inexplicable moments when they appeared to have seen something 
interesting. The man with the twisted face pointed and his closest companion, a 
podgy, pallid man, started forward, but a moment later they had relaxed into 
their previous state of inactivity, looking frustrated and disappointed.

     Meanwhile, inside number twelve, Harry had just entered the hall. He had 
nearly lost his balance as he Apparated onto the top step just outside the 
front door, and thought that the Death Eaters might have caught a glimpse of 
his momentarily exposed elbow. Shutting the front door carefully behind him, he 
pulled off the Invisibility Cloak, draped it over his arm, and hurried along 
the gloomy hallway toward the door that led to the basement, a stolen copy of 
the Daily Prophet clutched in his hand.

     The usual low whisper of "Severus Snape" greeted him, the chill wind swept 
him, and his tongue rolled up for a moment.

     "I didn't kill you," he said, once it had unrolled, then held his breath as the 
dusty jinx-figure exploded. He waited until he was halfway down the stairs to the kitchen, out of 
earshot of Mrs. Black and clear of the dust cloud, before calling, "I've got news, and you 
won't like it."

     The kitchen was almost unrecognizable. Every surface now shone; Copper 
pots and pans had been burnished to a rosy glow; the wooden tabletop gleamed; 
the goblets and plates already laid for dinner glinted in the light from a 
merrily blazing fire, on which a cauldron was simmering. Nothing in the room, 
however, was more dramatically different than the house-elf who now came 
hurrying toward Harry, dressed in a snowy-white towel, his ear hair as clean 
and fluffy as cotton wool, Regulus's locket bouncing on his thin chest.

     "Shoes off, if you please, Master Harry, and hands washed before dinner," 
croaked Kreacher, seizing the Invisibility Cloak and slouching off to hang it on a hook 
on the wall, beside a number of old-fashioned robes that had been freshly laundered.

     "What's happened?" Ron asked apprehensively. He are Hermione had been 
pouring over a sheaf of scribbled notes and hand drawn maps that littered the end of the 
long kitchen table, but now they watched Harry as he strode toward them and threw down 
the newspaper on top of their scattered parchment.

     A large picture of a familiar, hook-nosed, black-haired man stared up at 
them all, beneath a headline that read:


"No!" said Ron and Hermione loudly.

     Hermione was quickest; she snatched up the newspaper and began to read the 
accompanying story out loud.

     "Severus Snape, long-standing Potions master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft 
and wizardry, was today appointed headmaster in the most important of several staffing 
changes at the ancient school. Following the resignation of the previous Muggle Studies 
teacher, Alecto Carrow will take over the post while her brother, Amycus, fills the 
position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. "

       'I welcome the opportunity to uphold our finest Wizarding traditions and values -'Like 
committing murder and cutting off people's ears, I suppose! Snape, headmaster! Snape in 
Dumbledore's study - Merlin's pants!" she shrieked, making both Harry and Ron jump. She 
leapt up from the table and hurtled from the room, shouting as she went, "I'll be back in 
a minute!"

     '"Merlin's pants'?" repeated Ron, looking amused. "She must be upset." He 
pulled the newspaper toward him and perused the article about Snape.

     "The other teachers won't stand for this, McGonagall and Flitwick and Sprout 
all know the truth, they know how Dumbledore died. They won't accept Snape as headmaster. 
And who are these Carrows?"

     "Death Eaters," said Harry. "There are pictures of them inside. They were at the top of 
the tower when Snape killed Dumbledore, so it's all friends together. And," Harry went on bitterly, 
drawing up a chair, "I can't see that the other teachers have got any choice but to stay. If the 
Ministry and Voldemort are behind Snape it'll be a choice between staying and teaching, or a nice few years 
in Azkaban - and that's if they're lucky. I reckon they'll stay to try and protect the students."

     Kreacher came bustling to the table with a large curcen in his hands, and 
ladled out soup into pristine bowls, whistling between his teeth as he did so.

     "Thanks, Kreacher," said Harry, flipping over the Prophet so as not to have to look 
at Snape's face. "Well, at least we know exactly where Snape is now."

     He began to spoon soup into his mouth. The quality of Kreacher's cooking 
had improved dramatically ever since he had been given Regulus's locket: 
Today's French onion was as good as Harry had ever tasted.

     "There are still a load of Death Eaters watching this house," he told Ron as he ate, 
"more than usual. It's like they're hoping we'll march out carrying our school trunks and head 
off for the Hogwarts Express."

Ron glanced at his watch.

     "I've been thinking about that all day. It left nearly six hours ago. Weird, 
not being on it, isn't it?"

     In his mind's eye Harry seemed to see the scarlet steam engine as he and 
Ron had once followed it by air, shimmering between fields and hills, a 
rippling scarlet caterpillar. He was sure Ginny, Neville, and Luna were sitting 
together at this moment, perhaps wondering where he, Ron, and Hermione were, or 
debating how best to undermine Snape's new regime.

     "They nearly saw me coming back in just now," Harry said, "I landed badly on 
the top step, and the Cloak slipped."

     "I do that every time. Oh, here she is," Ron added, craning around in his seat to 
watch Hermione reentering the kitchen. "And what in the name of Merlin's most baggy Y Fronts 
was that about?"

"I remembered this," Hermione panted.

     She was carrying a large, framed picture, which she now lowered to the 
floor before seizing her small, beaded bag from the kitchen sideboard. Opening 
it, she proceeded to force the painting inside and despite the fact that it was 
patently too large to fit inside the tiny bag, within a few seconds it had 
vanished, like so much ease, into the bag's capacious depths.

     "Phineas Nigellus," Hermione explained as she threw the bag onto the 
kitchen table with the usual sonorous, clanking crash.

     "Sorry?" said Ron, but Harry understood. The painted image of Phineas 
Nigellus Black was able to travel between his portrait in Grimmauld Place and the one 
that hung in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts: the circular cower-top room where Snape 
was no doubt sitting right now, in triumphant possession of Dumbledore's collection of 
delicate, silver magical instruments, the stone Pensieve, the Sorting Hat and, unless it 
ad been moved elsewhere, the sword of Gryffindor.

     "Snape could send Phineas Nigellus to look inside this house for him," Hermione 
explained to Ron as she resumed her seat. "But let him try it now, all Phineas Nigellus will 
be able to see is the inside of my handbag."

"Good thinking!" said Ron, looking impressed.

     "Thank you," smiled Hermione, pulling her soup toward her. "So, Harry, what 
else happened today?"

     "Nothing," said Harry. "Watched the Ministry entrance for seven hours. No sign 
of her. Saw your dad though, Ron. He looks fine."

     Ron nodded his appreciation of this news. The had agreed that it was far 
too dangerous to try and communicate with Mr. Weasley while he walked in and 
out of the Ministry, because he was always surrounded by other Ministry 
workers. It was, however, reassuring to catch these glimpses of him, even if he 
did look very strained and anxious.

     "Dad always told us most Ministry people use the Floo Network to get to work," Ron 
said. "That's why we haven't seen Umbridge, she'd never walk, she'd think she's too 

     "And what about that funny old witch and that little wizard in the navy 
robes?" Hermione asked.

"Oh yeah, the bloke from Magical Maintenance," said Ron.

     "How do you know he works for Magical Maintenance?" Hermione asked, her 
soupspoon suspended in midair.

"Dad said everyone from Magical Maintenance wears navy blue robes."

"But you never told us that!"

     Hermione dropped her spoon and pulled toward her the sheaf of notes and 
maps that she and Ron had been examining when Harry had entered the kitchen.

     "There's nothing in here about navy blue robes, nothing!" she said, 
flipping feverishly through the pages.

"Well, dies it really matter?"

     "Ron, it all matters! If we're going to get into the Ministry and not give 
ourselves away when they're bound to be on the lookout for intruders, every little detail 
matters! We've been over and over this, I mean, what's the point of all these 
reconnaissance trips if you aren't even bothering to tell us -"

"Blimey, Hermione, I forget one little thing - "

     "You do realize, don't you, that there's probably no more dangerous place in 
the whole world for us to be right now than the Ministry of-"

"I think we should do it tomorrow," said Harry.

Hermione stopped dead, her jaw hanging; Ron choked a little over his soup.

"Tomorrow?" repeated Hermione. "You aren't serious, Harry?"

     "I am," said Harry. "I don't think we're going to be much better prepared than 
we are now even if we skulk around the Ministry entrance for another month. The longer we put it 
off, the farther away that locket could be. There's already a good chance Umbridge has chucked it 
away; the thing doesn't open."

"Unless," said Ron, "she's found a way of opening it and she's now possessed."

     "Wouldn't make any difference to her, she was so evil in the first place," 
Harry shrugged.

Hermione was biting her lip, deep in thought.

     "We know everything important," Harry went on, addressing Hermione. "We know 
they've stopped Apparition in and out of the Ministry; We know only the most senior Ministry 
members are allowed to connect their homes to the Floo Network now, because Ron heard those two 
Unspeakables complaining about it. And we know roughly where Umbridge's office is, because of what 
you heard the bearded bloke saying to his mate -"

     '"/'// be up on level one, Dolores wants to see me"' Hermione recited 

     "Exactly," said Harry. "And we know you get in using those funny coins, or 
tokens, or whatever they are, because I saw that witch borrowing one from her friend - "

"But we haven't got any!"

"If the plan works, we will have," Harry continued calmly.

     "I don't know, Harry, I don't know ... There are an awful lot of things that 
could go wrong, so much relies on chance ..."

     That'll be true even if we spend another three months preparing," said Harry. 
"It's time to act."

     He could tell from Ron's and Hermione's faces that they were scared; he 
was not particularly confident himself, and yet he was sure the time had come 
to put their plan into operation.

     They had spent the previous four weeks taking it in turns to don the 
Invisibility Cloak and spy on the official entrance to the Ministry, which Ron, 
thanks to Mr. Weasley, had known since childhood. They had tailed Ministry workers 
on their way in, eavesdropped on their conversations, and learned by careful 
observation which of them could be relied upon to appear, alone, at the same time 
every day. Occasionally there had been a chance to sneak & Daily Prophet out of 
somebody's briefcase. Slowly they had built up the sketchy maps and notes now 
stacked in front of Hermione.

     "All right," said Ron slowly, "let's say we go for it tomorrow ... I think it 
should just be me and Harry."

"Oh, don't start that again!" sighed Hermione. "I thought we'd settled this."

     "It's one thing hanging around the entrances under the Cloak, but this is different. 
Hermione," Ron jabbed a finger at a copy of the Daily Prophet dated ten days previously. 
"You're on the list of Muggle-borns who didn't present themselves for interrogation!"

     "And you're supposed to be dying of spattergroit at the Burrow! If anyone 
shouldn't go, it's Harry, he's got a ten-thousand-Galleon price on his head - "

     "Fine, I'll stay here," said Harry. "Let me know if you ever defeat Voldemort, 
won't you?"

     As Ron and Hermione laughed, pain shot through the scar on Harry's 
forehead. His hand jumped to it. He saw Hermione's eyes narrow, and he tried to 
pass off the movement by brushing his hair out of his eyes.

     "Well, if all three of us go we'll have to Disapparate separately," Ron was saying. 
"We can't all fit under the Cloak anymore."

     Harry's scar was becoming more and more painful. He stood up. At once, 
Kreacher hurried forward.

     "Master has not finished his soup, would master prefer the savory stew, or else 
the treacle tart to which Master is so partial?"

"Thanks, Kreacher, but I'll be back in a minute - er - bathroom."

     Aware that Hermione was watching him suspiciously, Harry hurried up the 
stairs to the hall and then to the first landing, where he dashed into the 
bathroom and bolted the door again. Grunting with pain, he slumped over the 
black basin with its taps in the form of open-mouthed serpents and closed his 
eyes ....

     He was gliding along a twilit street. The buildings on either side of him 
had high, timbered gables; they looked like gingerbread houses. He approached 
one of them, then saw the whiteness of his own long-fingered hand against the 
door. He knocked. He felt a mounting excitement...

     The door opened: A laughing woman stood there. Her face fell as she looked 
into Harry's face: humor gone, terror replacing it ....

"Gregorovitch?" said a high, cold voice.

     She shook her head: She was trying to close the door. A white hand held it 
steady, prevented her shutting him out...

"I want Gregorovitch."

     "Er wohnt hier nicht mehrf she cried, shaking her head. "He no live here! He no 
live here! I know him not!"

     Abandoning the attempt to close the door, she began to back away down the 
dark hall, and Harry followed, gliding toward her, and his long-fingered hand 
had drawn his wand.

"where is he?"

"Das weiffich nicht! He move! I know not, I know not!"

    He raised his hand. She screamed. Two young children came running into the 
hall. She tried to shield them with her arms. There was a flash of green light -

"Harry! HARRY!"

     He opened his eyes; he had sunk to the floor. Hermione was pounding on the 
door again.

"Harry, open up!"

     He had shouted out, he knew it. He got up and unbolted the door; Hermione 
toppled inside at once, regained her balance, and looked around suspiciously. 
Ron was right behind her, looking unnerved as he pointed his wand into the 
corners of the chilly bathroom.

"What were you doing?" asked Hermione sternly.

"What d'you think I was doing?" asked Harry with feeble bravado.

"You were yelling your head off!" said Ron.

"Oh yeah ... I must've dozed off or - "

     "Harry, please don't insult our intelligence," said Hermione, taking deep breaths. 
"We know your scar hurt downstairs, and you're white as a sheet."

Harry sat down on the edge of the bath.

     "Fine. I've just seen Voldemort murdering a woman. By now he's probably 
killed her whole family. And he didn't need to. It was Cedric all over again, they 
were just there

     "Harry, you aren't supposed to let this happen anymore!" Hermione cried, her voice 
echoing through the bathroom. "Dumbledore wanted you to use Occlumency! HE thought the 
connection was dangerous - Voldemort can use it, Harry! What good is it to watch him kill and 
torture, how can it help?"

"Because it means I know what he's doing," said Harry.

"So you're not even going to try to shut him out?"

     "Hermione, I can't. You know I'm lousy at Occlumency. I never got the hang of 

     "You never really tried!" she said hotly. "I don't get it, Harry - do you like 
having this special connection or relationship or what - whatever - "

She faltered under the look he gave her as he stood up.

"Like it?" he said quietly. "Wouldyou like it?"

"I - no - I'm sorry, Harry. I just didn't mean - "

     "I hate it, I hate the fact that he can get inside me, that I have to watch him 
when he's most dangerous. But I'm going to use it."

"Dumbledore -"

     "Forget Dumbledore. This is my choice, nobody else's. I want to know why he's 
after Gregorovitch."


     "He's a foreign wandmaker," said Harry. "He made Krum's wand and Krum reckons 
he's brilliant."

     "But according to you," said Ron, "Voldemort's got Ollivander locked up 
somewhere. If he's already got a wandmaker, what does he need another one for?"

     "Maybe he agrees with Krum, maybe he thinks Gregorovitch is better ... or else 
he thinks Gregorovitch will be able to explain what my wand did when he was chasing me, 
because Ollivander didn't know."

     Harry glanced into the cracked, dusty mirror and saw Ron and Hermione 
exchanging skeptical looks behind his back.

     "Harry, you keep talking about what your wand did," said Hermione, "butyou made 
it happen! Why are you so determined not to take responsibility for your own power?"

     "Because I know it wasn't me! And so does Voldemort, Hermione! We both know 
what really happened!"

     They glared at each other; Harry knew that he had not convinced Hermione 
and that she was marshaling counterarguments, against both his theory on his 
wand and the fact that he was permitting himself to see into Voldemort's mind. 
To his relief, Ron intervened.

     "Drop it," he advised her. "It's up to him. And if we're going to the Ministry 
tomorrow, don't you reckon we should go over the plan?"

     Reluctantly, as the other two could tell, Hermione let the matter rest, 
though Harry was quite sure she would attack again at the first opportunity. In 
the meantime, they returned to the basement kitchen, where Kreacher served them 
all stew and treacle tart.

     They did not get to bed until late that night, after spending hours going 
over and over their plan until they could recite it, word perfect, to each 
other. Harry, who was now sleeping in Sirius's room, lay in bed with his 
wandlight trained on the old photograph of his father, Sirius, Lupin, and 
Pettigrew, and muttered the plan to himself for another ten minutes. As he 
extinguished his wand, however, he was thinking not of Polyjuice Potion, Puking 
Pastilles, or the navy blue robes of Magical Maintenance; he though of 
Gregorovitch the wandmaker, and how long he could hope to remain hidden while 
Voldemort sought him so determinedly.

Dawn seemed to follow midnight with indecent haste.

"You look terrible," was Ron's greeting as he entered the room to wake Harry.

"Not for long," said Harry, yawning.

     They found Hermione downstairs in the kitchen. She was being served coffee 
and hot rolls by Kreacher and wearing the slightly manic expression that Harry 
associated with exam review.

     "Robes," she said under her breath, acknowledging their presence with a nervous nod 
and continuing to poke around in her beaded bag, "Polyjuice Potion ... Invisibiliity Cloak ... 
Decoy Detonators ... You should each take a couple just in case ... Puking Pastilles, 
NosebleedNorgat, Extendable Ears ..."

     They gulped down their breakfast, then set off upstairs, Kreacher bowing 
them out and promising to have a steak-and-kidney pie ready for them when they 

     "Bless him," said Ron fondly, "and when you think I used to fantasize about 
cutting off his head and sticking it on the wall."

     They made their way onto the front step with immense caution. They could 
see a couple of puffy-eyed Death Eaters watching the house from across the 
misty square.

Hermione Disapparated with Ron first, then came back for Harry.

     After the usual brief spell of darkness and near suffocation, Harry found 
himself in the tiny alleyway where the first phase of their plan was scheduled 
to take place. It was as yet deserted, except for a couple of large bins; the 
first Ministry workers did not usually appear here until at least eight o'clock.

     "Right then," said Hermione, checking her watch, "she ought to be here in about 
five minutes. When I've Stunned her -"

     "Hermione, we know," said Ron sternly. "And I thought we were supposed to open 
the door before she got here?"

Hermione squealed.

"I nearly forgot! Stand back -"

     She pointed her wand at the padlocked and heavily graffitied fire door 
beside them, which burst open with a crash. The dark corridor behind it led, as 
they knew from their careful scouting trips, into an empty theater. Hermione 
pulled the door back toward her, to make it look as thought it was still closed.

     "And now," she said, turning, back to face the other two in the alleyway, "we 
put on the Cloak again -"

     "?and we wait," Ron finished, throwing it over Hermione's head like a 
blanket over a birdcage and rolling his eyes at Harry.

     Little more than a minute later, there was a tiny pop and a little 
Ministry witch with flyaway gray hair Apparated feet from them, blinking a 
little in the sudden brightness: the sun hadjust come out from behind a cloud. 
She barely had time to enjoy the unexpected warmth, however, before Hermione's 
silent Stunning Spell hit her in the chest and she toppled over.

     "Nicely done, Hermione," said Ron, emerging behind a bin beside the 
theater door as Harry took off the Invisibility Cloak. Together they carried the little 
witch into the dark passageway that led backstage. Hermione plucked a few hairs from the 
witch's head and added them to a flask of muddy Polyjuice Potion she had taken from the 
beaded bag. Ron was rummaging through the little witch's handbag.

     "She's Mafalda Hopkirk," he said, reading a small card that identified their victim 
as an assistant in the Improper Use of Magic Office. "You'd better take this, Hermione, and 
here are the tokens."

     He passed her several small golden coins, all embossed with the letters 
M.O.M., which he had taken from the witch's purse.

     Hermione drank the Polyjuice Potion, which was now a pleasant heliotrope 
color, and within seconds stood before them, the double of Mafalda Hopkirk. As 
she removed Mafalda's spectacles and put them on, Harry checked his watch.

"We're running late, Mr. Magical Maintenance will be here any second."

     They hurried to close the door on the real Mafalda; Harry and Ron threw 
the Invisibility Cloak over themselves but Hermione remained in view, waiting. 
Seconds later there was another pop, and a small, ferrety looking wizard 
appeared before them.

"Oh, hello, Mafalda."

"Hello!" said Hermione in a quavery voice, "How are you today?"

     "Not so good, actually," replied the little wizard, who looked thoroughly 

     As Hermione and the wizard headed for the main road, Harry and Ron crept 
along behind them.

     "I'm sorry to hear you're under the weather," said Hermione, talking firmly over the 
little wizard and he tried to expound upon his problems; it was essential to stop him from reaching 
the street. "Here, have a sweet."

"Eh? Oh, no thanks -"

     "I insist!" said Hermione aggressively, shaking the bag of pastilles in 
his face. Looking rather alarmed, the little wizard took one.

     The effect was instantaneous. The moment the pastille touched his tongue, 
the little wizard started vomiting so hard that he did not even notice as 
Hermione yanked a handful of hairs from the top of his head.

     "Oh dear!" she said, as he splattered the alley with sick. "Perhaps you'd 
better take the day off!"

     "No - no!" He choked and retched, trying to continue on his way despite being unable 
to walk straight. "I must - today - must go - "

     "But that's just silly!" said Hermione, alarmed. "You can't go to work in this 
state - I think you ought to go to St. Mungo's and get them to sort you out."

     The wizard had collapsed, heaving, onto all fours, still trying to crawl 
toward the main street.

"You simply can't go to work like this!" cried Hermione.

     At last he seemed to accept the truth of her words. Using a reposed 
Hermione to claw his way back into a standing position, he turned on the spot 
and vanished, leaving nothing behind but the bag Ron had snatched from his hand 
as he went and some flying chunks of vomit.

     "Urgh," said Hermione, holding up the skirt of her robe to avoid the puddles of 
sick. "It would have made much less mess to Stun him too."

     "Yeah," said Ron, emerging from under the cloak holding the wizard's bag, "but 
I still think a whole pile of unconscious bodies would have drawn more attention. Keen on his job, 
though, isn't he? Chuck us the hair and the potion, then."

     Within two minutes, Ron stood before them, as small and ferrety as the 
sick wizard, and wearing the navy blue robes that had been folded in his bag.

     "Weird he wasn't wearing them today, wasn't it, seeing how much he wanted to 
go? Anyway, I'm Reg Cattermole, according to the label in the back."

     "Now wait here," Hermione told Harry, who was still under the Invisibility Cloak, 
"and we'll be back with some hairs for you."

     He had to wait ten minutes, but it seemed much longer to Harry, skulking 
alone in the sick-splattered alleyway beside the door concealing the Stunned 
Mafalda. Finally Ron and Hermione reappeared.

     "We don't know who he is," Hermione said, passing Harry several curly black hairs, 
"but he's gone home with a dreadful nosebleed! Here, he's pretty tall, you'll need bigger 
robes ..."

     She pulled out a set of the old robes Kreacher had laundered for them, and 
Harry retired to take the potion and change.

     Once the painful transformation was complete he was more than six feet 
tall and, from what he could tell from his well-muscled arms, powerfully built. 
He also had a beard. Stowing the Invisibility Cloak and his glasses inside his 
new robes, he rejoined the other two.

"Blimey, that's scary," said Ron, looking up at Harry, who now towered over him.

     "Take one of Mafalda's tokens," Hermione told Harry, "and let's go, it's nearly 

     They stepped out of the alleyway together. Fifty yards along the crowded 
pavement there were spiked black railings flanking two flights of stairs, one 
labeled GENTLEMEN, the other LADIES.

     "See you in a moment, then," said Hermione nervously, and she tottered off 
down the steps to LADIES. Harry and Ron joined a number of oddly dressed men descending 
into what appeared to be an ordinary underground public toilet, tiled in grimy black and 

     "Morning, Reg!" called another wizard in navy blue robes as he let himself into a 
cubicle by inserting his golden token into a slot in the door. "Blooming pain in the bum, 
this, eh? Forcing us all to get to work this way! Who are they expecting to turn up, Harry 

The wizard roared with laughter at his own wit. Ron gave a forced chuckle.

"Yeah," he said, "stupid, isn't it?"

And he and Harry let themselves into adjoining cubicles.

     To Harry's left and right came the sound of flushing. He crouched down and 
peered through the gap at the bottom of the cubicle, just in time to see a pair 
of booted feet climbing into the toilet next door. He looked left and saw Ron 
blinking at him.

"We have to flush ourselves in?" he whispered.

"Looks like it," Harry whispered back; his voice came out deep and gravelly.

They both stood up. Feeling exceptionally foolish, Harry clambered into the 

     He knew at once that he had done the right thing; thought he appeared to 
be standing in water, his shoes, feet, and robes remained quite dry. He reached 
up, pulled the chain, and next moment had zoomed down a short chute, emerging 
out of a fireplace into the Ministry of Magic.

     He got up clumsily; there was a lot more of his body than he was 
accustomed to. The great Atrium seemed darker than Harry remembered it. 
Previously a golden fountain had filled the center of the hall, casting 
shimmering spots of light over the polished wooden floor and walls. Now a 
gigantic statue of black stone dominated the scene. It was rather frightening, 
this vast sculpture of a witch and a wizard sitting on ornately carved thrones, 
looking down at the Ministry workers toppling out of fireplaces below them. 
Engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue were the words MAGIC IS 

     Harry received a heavy blow on the back of the legs. Another wizard had 
just flown out of the fireplace behind him.

"Out of the way, can't y - oh, sorry, Runcorn."

     Clearly frightened, the balding wizard hurried away. Apparently the man 
who Harry was impersonating, Runcorn, was intimidating.

     "Psst!" said a voice, and he looked around to see a whispy little witch 
and the ferrety wizard from Magical Maintenance gesturing to him from over beside the 
statue. Harry hastened to join them.

"You got in all right, then?" Hermione whispered to Harry.

"No, he's still stuck in the hog," said Ron.

     "Oh, very funny ... It's horrible, isn't it?" she said to Harry, who was staring up 
at the statue. "Have you seen what they're sitting on?"

     Harry looked more closely and realized that what he had thought were 
decoratively carved thrones were actually mounds of carved humans: hundreds and 
hundreds of naked bodies, men, women, and children, all with rather stupid, 
ugly faces, twisted and pressed together to support the weight of the 
handsomely robed wizards.

     "Muggles," whispered Hermione, "In their rightful place. Come on, let's get 

     They joined the stream of witches and wizards moving toward the golden gates at the 
end of the hall, looking around as surreptitiously as possible, but there was no sign of 
the distinctive figure of Dolores Umbridge. They passed through the gates and into a 
smaller hall, where queues were forming in front of twenty golden grilles housing as many 
lifts. They had barely joined the nearest one when a voice said, "Cattermole!"

     They looked around: Harry's stomach turned over. One of the Death Eaters 
who had witnessed Dumbledore's death was striding toward them. The Ministry 
workers beside them fell silent, their eyes downcast; Harry could feel fear 
rippling through them.

The man's scowling, slightly brutish face was somehow at odds with his magnificent, 
sweeping robes, which were embroidered with much gold thread. Someone in the crowd around 
the lifts called sycophantically, "Morning, Yaxley!" Yaxley ignored them.

     "I requested somebody from Magical Maintenance to sort out my office, 
Cattermole. It's still raining in there."

     Ron looked around as though hoping somebody else would intervene, but 
nobody spoke.

"Raining ... in your office? That's - that's not good, is it?"

Ron gave a nervous laugh. Yaxley's eyes widened.

"You think it's funny, Cattermole, do you?"

A pair of witches broke away from the queue for the lift and bustled off.

"No," said Ron, "no, of course -"

     "You realize that I am on my way downstairs to interrogate your wife, 
Cattermole? In fact, I'm quite surprised you're not down there holding her hand while she 
waits. Already given her up as a bad job, have you? Probably wise. Be sure and marry a 
pureblood next time."

     Hermione had let out a little squeak of horror. Yaxley looked at her. She 
cough feebly and turned away.

"I -1 -" stammered Ron.

     "But if my wife were accused of being a Mudblood," said Yaxley, "?not that any 
woman I married would ever be mistaken for such filth - and the Head of Department of Magical Law 
Enforcement needed a job doing, I would make it my priority to do this job, Cattermole. Do you 
understand me?"

"Yes," whispered Ron.

     "Then attend to it, Cattermole, and if my office is not completely dry within 
an hour, your wife's Blood Status will be in even greater doubt than it is now."

     The golden grille before them clattered open. With a nod and unpleasant 
smile to Harry, who was evidently expected to appreciate this treatment of 
Cattermole, Yaxley swept away toward another lift. Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
entered theirs, but nobody followed them: It was as if they were infectious. 
The grilles shut with a clang and the lift began to move upward.

     "What am I going to do?" Ron asked the other two at once; he looked stricken. 
"If I don't turn up, my wife ... I mean, Cattermole's wife - "

     "We'll come with you, we should stick together -" began Harry, but Ron 
shook his head feverishly.

     "That's mental, we haven't got much time. You two find Umbridge, I'll go and 
sort out Yaxley's office - but how do I stop a raining?"

     "Try Finite Incantatem," said Hermione at once, "that should stop the rain if 
it's a hex or curse; if it doesn't something's gone wrong with an Atmospheric Charm, which will be 
more difficult to fix, so as an interim measure try Impervius to protect his belongings - "

     "Say it again, slowly - " said Ron, searching his pockets desperately for a quill, 
but at that moment the lift juddered to a halt. A disembodied female voice said, "Level four, 
Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, incorporating Beast, Being, and 
Spirit Divisions, Goblin Liaison Office, and Pest Advisory Bureau,"

and the grilles slid open again, admitting a couple of wizards and several pale 
violet paper airplanes that fluttered around the lamp in the ceiling of the 

     "Morning, Albert," said a bushily whiskered man, smiling at Harry. He glanced over 
at Ron and Hermione as the lift creaked upward once more; Hermione was now whispering frantic 
instructions to Ron. The wizard leaned toward Harry, leering, and muttering "Dirk Cresswell, 
eh? From Goblin Liaison? Nice one, Albert. I'm pretty confident I'll get his job now!"

     He winked. Harry smiled back, hoping that this would suffice. The lift 
stopped; the grilles opened once more.

     "Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement, including the Improper Use 
of Magic Office, Auror Headquarters, and Wizengamot Administration Services," said 
the disembodied witch's voice.

     Harry saw Hermione give Ron a little push and he hurried out of the lift, followed 
by the other wizards, leaving Harry and Hermione alone. The moment the golden door had 
closed Hermione said, very fast, "Actually, Harry, I think I'd better go after him, 
I don't think he knows what he's doing and if he gets caught the whole thing - "

"Level one, Minister of Magic and Support Staff."

     The golden grilles slid apart again and Hermione gasped. Four people stood 
before them, two of them deep in conversation: a long-haired wizard wearing 
magnificent robes of black and gold, and a squat, toadlike witch wearing a 
velvet bow in her short hair and clutching a clipboard to her chest.

Chapter Thirteen

The Muggle-Born Registration Commission

"Ah, Mafalda!" said Umbridge, looking at Hermione. "Travers sent you, did he?"

"Y-yes," squeaked Hermione.

     "God, you'll do perfectly well." Umbridge spoke to the wizard in black and gold. "That's that 
problem solved. Minister, if Mafalda can be spared for record-keeping we shall be able to start straightaway." She 
consulted her clipboard. "Ten people today and one of them the wife of a Ministry employee! Tut, tut... even here, 
in the heart of the Ministry!" She stepped into the lift besides Hermione, as did the two wizards who had been 
listening to Umbridge's conversation with the Minister. "We'll go straight down, Mafalda, you'll find everything 
you need in the courtroom. Good morning, Albert, aren't you getting out?"

"Yes, of course," said Harry in Runcorn's deep voice.

     Harry stepped out of the life. The golden grilles clanged shut behind him. 
Glancing over his shoulder, Harry saw Hermione's anxious face sinking back out 
of sight, a tall wizard on either side of her, Umbridge's velvet hair-bow level 
with her shoulder.

     "What brings you here, Runcorn?" asked the new Minister of Magic. His long 
black hair and beard were streaked with silver and a great overhanging forehead shadowed 
his glinting eyes, putting Harry in the mind of a crab looking out from beneath a rock.

     "Needed a quick word with," Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, "Arthur 
Weasley. Someone said he was up on level one."

     "Ah," said Plum Thicknesse. "Has he been caught having contact with an 

"No," said Harry, his throat dry. "No, nothing like that."

     "Ah, well. It's only a matter of time," said Thicknesse. "If you ask me, the 
blood traitors are as bad as the Mudbloods. Good day, Runcorn."

"Good day, Minister."

     Harry watched Thicknesse march away along the thickly carpeted corridor. 
The moment the Minister had passed out of sight, Harry tugged the Invisibility 
Cloak out from under his heavy black cloak, threw it over himself, and set off 
along the corridor in the opposite direction. Runcorn was so tall that Harry 
was forced to stoop to make sure his big feet were hidden.

     Panic pulsed in the pit of his stomach. As he passed gleaming wooden door 
after gleaming wooden door, each bearing a small plaque with the owner's name 
and occupation upon it, the might of the Ministry, its complexity, its 
impenetrability, seemed to force itself upon him so that the plan he had been 
carefully concocting with Ron and Hermione over the past four weeks seemed 
laughably childish. They had concentrated all their efforts on getting inside 
without being detected: They had not given a moment's thought to what they 
would do if they were forced to separate. Now Hermione was stuck in court 
proceedings, which would undoubtedly last hours; Ron was struggling to do magic 
that Harry was sure was beyond him, a woman's liberty possibly depending on the 
outcome, and he, Harry, was wandering around on the top floor when he knew 
perfectly well that his quarry had just gone down in the lift.

     He stopped walking, leaned against a wall, and tried to decide what to do. 
The silence pressed upon him: There was no bustling or talk or swift footsteps 
here the purple-carpeted corridors were as hushed as though the Muffliato charm 
had been cast over the place.

Her office must be up here, Harry thought.

     It seemed most unlikely that Umbridge would keep her jewelry in her 
office, but on the other hand it seemed foolish not to search it to make sure. 
He therefore set off along the corridor again, passing nobody but a frowning 
wizard who was murmuring instructions to a quill that floated in front of him, 
scribbling on a trail of parchment.

     Now paying attention to the names on the doors, Harry turned a corner. 
Halfway along the next corridor he emerged into a wide, open space where a 
dozen witches and wizards sat in rows at small desks not unlike school desks, 
though much more highly polished and free from graffiti. Harry paused to watch 
them, for the effect was quite mesmerizing. They were all waving and twiddling 
their wands in unison, and squares of colored paper were flying in every 
direction like little pink kites. After a few seconds, Harry realized that 
there was a rhythm to the proceedings, that the papers all formed the same 
pattern and after a few more seconds he realized what he was watching was the 
creation of pamphlets - that the paper squares were pages, which, when 
assembled, folded and magicked into place, fell into neat stacks beside each 
witch or wizard.

     Harry crept closer, although the workers were so intent on what they were 
doing that he doubted they would notice a carpet-muffled footstep, and he slid 
a completed

pamphlet from the pile beside a young witch. He examined it beneath the 
Invisibility Cloak. Its pink cover was emblazoned with a golden title:


and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society

     Beneath the title was a picture of a red rose with a simpering face in the middle of 
its petals, being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. There was no author's 
name upon the pamphlet, but again, the scars on the back of his right hand seemed to 
tingle as he examined it. Then the young witch beside him confirmed his suspicion as she 
said, still waving and twirling her wand, "Will the old hag be interrogating 
Mudbloods all day, does anyone know?"

     "Careful," said the wizard beside her, glancing around nervously; one of 
his pages slipped and fell to the floor.

"What, has she got magic ears as well as an eye, now?"

     The witch glanced toward the shining mahogany door facing the space full 
of pamphlet-makers; Harry looked too, and the rage reared in him like a snake. 
Where there might have been a peephole on a Muggle front door, a large, round 
eye with a bright blue iris had been set into the wood - an eye that was 
shockingly familiar to anybody who had known Alastor Moody.

     For a split second Harry forgot where he was and what he was doing there: 
He even forgot that he was invisible. He strode straight over to the door to 
examine the eye. It was not moving. It gazed blindly upward, frozen. The plaque 
beneath it read:

Dolores Umbridge

Senior Undersecretary to the Minister

Below that a slightly shinier new plaque read:

Head of the Muggle-Born Registration Commission

     Harry looked back at the dozen pamphlet-makers: Though they were intent 
upon their work, he could hardly suppose that they would not notice if the door 
of an empty office opened in front of them. He therefore withdrew from an inner 
pocket an odd object with little waving legs and a rubber-bulbed horn for a 
body. Crouching down beneath the Cloak, he placed the Decoy Detonator on the 

     It scuttled away at once through the legs of the witches and wizards in 
front of him. A few moments later, during which Harry waited with his hand upon 
the doorknob, there came a loud bang and a great deal of acrid smoke billowed 
from a corner. The young witch in the front row shrieked: Pink pages flew 
everywhere as she and her fellows jumped up, looking around for the source of 
the commotion. Harry turned the doorknob, stepped into Umbridge's office, and 
closed the door behind him.

     He felt he had stepped back in time. The room was exactly like Umbridge's office at 
Hogwarts: Lace draperies, doilies and dried flowers covered every surface. The walls bore 
the same ornamental plates, each featuring a highly colored, beribboned kitten, gamboling 
and frisking with sickening cuteness. The desk was covered with a flouncy, flowered 
cloth. Behind Mad-eye's eye, a telescopic attachment enabled Umbridge to spy on the 
workers on the other side of the door. Harry took a look through it and saw that they 
were all still gathered around the Decoy Detonator. He wrenched the telescope out of the 
door, leaving a hole behind, pulled the magical eyeball out of it, and placed it in his 
pocket. The he turned to face the room again, raised his wand, and murmured, "Actio 

     Nothing happened, but he had not expected it to; no doubt Umbridge knew 
all about protective charms and spells. He therefore hurried behind her desk 
and began pulling open all the drawers. He saw quills and notebooks and 
Spellotape; enchanted paper clips that coiled snakelike from their drawer and 
had be beaten back; a fussy little lace box full of spare hair bows and clips; 
but no sign of a locket.

     There was a filing cabinet behind the desk: Harry set to searching it. 
Like Filch's filing cabinet at Hogwarts, it was full of folders, each labeled 
with a name. It was not until Harry reached the bottommost drawer that he saw 
something to distract him from the search: Mr. Weasley's file.

He pulled it out and opened it.

Arthur Weasley  

Blood Status:

Pureblood, but with unacceptable pro-Muggle leanings. Known member of the Order 
of the Phoenix.


Security Status:

Wife (pureblood), seven children, two youngest at Hogwarts. NB: Youngest son 
currently at home, seriously ill, Ministry inspectors have confirmed. TRACKED. 
All movements are being monitored. Strong likelihood Undesirable No. 1 will 
contact (has stayed with Weasley family previously)

     "Undesirable Number One," Harry muttered under his breath as he replaced Mr. 
Weasley's folder and shut the drawer. He had an idea he knew who that was, and sure enough, as he 
straightened up and glanced around the office for fresh hiding places he saw a poster of himself on 
the wall, with the words UNDESIRABLE NO. 1 emblazoned across his chest. A little pink note was 
stuck to it with a picture of a kitten in the corner. Harry moved across to read it and saw that 
Umbridge had written, "To be punished. "

     Angrier than ever, he proceeded to grope in the bottoms of the vases and 
baskets of dried flowers, but was not at all surprised that the locket was not 
there. He gave the office one last sweeping look, and his heart skipped a beat. 
Dumbledore was staring at him from a small rectangular mirror, propped up on a 
bookcase beside the desk.

     Harry crossed the room at a run and snatched it up, but realized that the 
moment he touched it that it was not a mirror at all. Dumbledore was smiling 
wistfully out of the

front cover of a glossy book. Harry had not immediately noticed the curly green writing 
across his hat - The Life and Lies ofAlbus Dumbledore - nor the slightly smaller writing 
across his chest: "by Rita Skeeter, bestselling author of Armando Dippet: Master or 

     Harry opened the book at random and saw a full-page photograph of two 
teenage boys, both laughing immoderately with their arms around each other's 
shoulders. Dumbledore, now with elbow-length hair, had grown a tiny wispy beard 
that recalled the one on Krum's chin that had so annoyed Ron. The boy who 
roared in silent amusement beside Dumbledore had a gleeful, wild look about 
him. His golden hair fell in curls to his shoulders. Harry wondered whether it 
was a young Doge, but before he could check the caption, the door of the office 

     If Thicknesse had not been looking over his shoulder as he entered, Harry 
would not have had time to pull the Invisibility Cloak over himself. As it was, 
he thought Thicknesse might have caught a glimpse of movement, because for a 
moment or two he remained quite still, staring curiously at the place where 
Harry had just vanished. Perhaps deciding that that all he had seen was 
Dumbledore scratching his nose on the front of the book, for Harry had hastily 
replaced it upon the shelf. Thicknesse finally walked to the desk and pointed 
his wand at the quill standing ready in the ink pot. It sprang out and began 
scribbling a note to Umbridge. Very slowly, hardly daring to breathe, Harry 
backed out of the office into the open area beyond.

     The pamphlet-makers were still clustered around the remains of the Decoy Detonator, 
which continued to hoot feebly as it smoked. Harry hurried off up the corridor as the 
young witch said, "I bet it sneaked up here from Experimental Charms, they're so 
careless, remember that poisonous duck?"

     Speeding back toward the lifts, Harry reviewed his options. It had never 
been likely that the locket was here at the Ministry, and there was no hope of 
bewitching its whereabouts out of Umbridge while she was sitting in a crowded 
court. Their priority now had to be to leave the Ministry before they were 
exposed, and try again another day. The first thing to do was to find Ron, and 
then they could work out a way of extracting Hermione from the courtroom.

     The lift was empty when it arrived. Harry jumped in and pulled off the 
Invisibility Cloak as it started its descent. To his enormous relief, when it 
rattled to a halt at level two, a soaking-wet and wild-eyed Ron got in.

"M-morning," he stammered to Harry as the lift set off again.

"Ron, it's me, Harry!"

"Harry! Blimey, I forgot what you looked like - why isn't Hermione with you?"

"She had to go down to the courtrooms with Umbridge, she couldn't refuse, and -

     But before Harry could finish the lift had stopped again. The doors opened 
and Mr. Weasley walked inside, talking to an elderly witch whose blonde hair 
was teased so high it resembled an anthill.

     "... I quite understand what you're saying, Wakanda, but I'm afraid I cannot be 
party to - "

     Mr. Weasley broke off; he had noticed Harry. It was very strange to have 
Mr. Weasley glare at him with that much dislike. The lift doors closed and the 
four of them trundled downward once more.

     "Oh hello, Reg," said Mr. Weasley, looking around at the sound of steady dripping 
from Ron's robes. "Isn't your wife in for questioning today? Er - what's happened to you? Why 
are you so wet?"

     "Yaxley's office is raining," said Ron. He addressed Mr. Weasley's shoulder, and 
Harry felt sure he was scared that his father might recognize him if they looked directly into each 
other's eyes. "I couldn't stop it, so they've sent me to get Bernie - Pillsworth, I think they 
said -"

     "Yes, a lot of offices have been raining lately," said Mr. Weasley. "Did you 
try Meterolojinx Recanto? It worked for Bletchley."

     "Meteolojinx Recanto?" whispered Ron. "No, I didn't. Thanks, D -1 mean, thanks, 

     The lift doors opened; the old witch with the anthill hair left, and Ron 
darted past her out of sight. Harry made to follow him, but found his path 
blocked as Percy Weasley strode into the lift, his nose buried in some papers 
he was reading.

     Not until the doors had clanged shut again did Percy realize he was in a 
lit with his father. He glanced up, saw Mr. Weasley, turned radish red, and 
left the lift the moment the doors opened again. For the second time, Harry 
tried to get out, but this time found his way blocked by Mr. Weasley's arm.

"One moment, Runcorn."

     The lift doors closed and as they clanked down another floor, Mr. Weasley said, 
"I hear you had information about Dirk Cresswell."

     Harry had the impression that Mr. Weasley's anger was no less because of 
the brush with Percy. He decided his best chance was to act stupid.

"Sorry?" he said.

     "Don't pretend, Runcorn," said Mr. Weasley fiercely. "You tracked down the 
wizard who faked his family tree, didn't you?"

"I - so what if I did?" said Harry.

     "So Dirk Cresswell is ten times the wizard you are," said Mr. Weasley quietly, as 
the lift sank ever lower. "And if he survives Azkaban, you'll have to answer to him, not to 
mention his wife, his sons, and his friends -"

"Arthur," Harry interrupted, "you know you're being tracked, don't you?"

"Is that a threat, Runcorn?" said Mr. Weasley loudly.

"No," said Harry, "it's a fact! They're watching your every move -"

     The lift doors opened. They had reached the Atrium. Mr. Weasley gave Harry 
a scathing look and swept from the lift. Harry stood there, shaken. He wished 
he was impersonating somebody other than Runcorn.... The lift doors clanged 

     Harry pulled out the Invisibility Cloak and put it back on. He would try 
to extricate Hermione on his own while Ron was dealing with the raining office. 
When the doors opened, he stepped out into a torch-lit stone passageway quite 
different from the wood-paneled and carpeted corridors above. As the left 
rattled away again, Harry shivered slightly, looking toward the distant black 
door that marked the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

     He set off, his destination not the black door, but the doorway he 
remembered on the left hand side, which opened onto the flight of stairs down 
to the court chambers. His mind grappled with possibilities as he crept down 
them: He still had a couple of Decoy Detonators, but perhaps it would be better 
to simply knock on the courtroom door, enter

as Runcorn, and ask for a quick word with Mafalda? Of course, he did not know 
whether Runcorn was sufficiently important to get away with this, and even if 
he managed it, Hermione's non-reappearance might trigger a search before they 
were clear of the Ministry....

     Lost in thought, he did not immediately register the unnatural chill that 
was creeping over him, as if he were descending into fog. It was becoming 
colder and colder with every step he took; a cold that reached right down his 
throat and tore at his lungs. And then he felt that stealing sense of despair, 
or hopelessness, filling him, expanding inside him....

Dementors, he thought.

     And as he reached the foot of the stairs and turned to his right he saw a 
dreadful scene. The dark passage outside the courtrooms was packed with tall, 
black-hooded figures, their faces completely hidden, their ragged breathing the 
only sound in the place. The petrified Muggle-borns brought in for questioning 
sat huddled and shivering on hard wooden benches. Most of them were hiding 
their faces in their hands, perhaps in an instinctive attempt to shield 
themselves from the dementors' greedy mouths. Some were accompanied by 
families, others sat alone. The dementors were gliding up and down in front of 
them, and the cold, and the hopelessness, and the despair of the place laid 
themselves upon Harry like a curse....

     Fight it, he told himself, but he knew that he could not conjure a 
Patronus here without revealing himself instantly. So he moved forward as 
silently as he could, and with every step he took numbness seemed to steal over 
his brain, but he forced himself to think of Hermione and of Ron, who needed 

     Moving through the towering black figures was terrifying: The eyeless 
faces hidden beneath their hoods turned as he passed, and he felt sure that 
they sensed him, sensed, perhaps, a human presence that still had some hope, 
some resilience....

     And then, abruptly and shockingly amid the frozen silence, one of the 
dungeon doors on the left of the corridor was flung open and screams echoed out 
of it.

     "No, no, I'm half-blood, I'm half-blood, I tell you! My father was a wizard, he 
was, look him up, Arkie Alderton, he's a well known broomstick designer, look him up, I 
tell you - get your hands off me, get your hands off-"

     "This is your final warning," said Umbridge's soft voice, magically magnified so 
that it sounded clearly over the man's desperate screams. "If you struggle, you will be 
subjected to the Dementor's Kiss."

The man's screams subsided, but dry sobs echoed through the corridor.

"Take him away," said Umbridge.

     Two dementors appeared in the doorway of the courtroom, their rotting, 
scabbed hands clutching the upper arms of a wizard who appeared to be fainting. 
They glided away down the corridor with him, and the darkness they trailed 
behind them swallowed him from sight.

"Next - Mary Cattermole," called Umbridge.

     A small woman stood up; she was trembling from head to foot. Her dark hair 
was smoothed back into a bun and she wore long plain robes. Her face was 
completely bloodless. As she passed the dementors, Harry saw her shudder.

     He did it instinctively, without any sort of plan, because he hated the 
sight of her walking alone into the dungeon: As the door began to swing closed, 
he slipped into the courtroom behind her.

     It was not the same room in which he had once been interrogated for 
improper use of magic. This one was much smaller, though the ceiling was quite 
as high it gave the claustrophobic sense of being stuck at the bottom of a deep 

     There were more dementors in here, casting their freezing aura over the 
place; they stood like faceless sentinels in the corners farthest from the 
high, raised platform. Here, behind a balustrade, sat Umbridge, with Yaxley on 
one side of her, and Hermione, quite as white-faced as Mrs. Cattermole, on the 
other. At the foot of the platform, a bight-silver, long-haired cat prowled up 
and down, up and down, and Harry realized that it was there to protect the 
prosecutors from the despair that emanated from the dementors: That was for the 
accused to feel, not the accusers.

"Sit down," said Umbridge in her soft, silky voice.

     Mrs. Cattermole stumbled to the single seat in the middle of the floor 
beneath the raised platform. The moment she had sat down, chains clinked out of 
the arms of the chair and bound her there.

"You are Mary Elizabeth Cattermole?" asked Umbridge.

Mrs. Cattermole gave a single, shaky nod.

"Married to Reginald Cattermole of the Magical Maintenance Department?"

Mrs. Cattermole burst into tears.

"I don't know where he is, he was supposed to meet me here!"

Umbridge ignored her.

"Mother to Maisie, Ellie and Alfred Cattermole?"

Mrs. Cattermole sobbed harder than ever.

"They're frightened, they think that I might not come home -"

"Spare us," spat Yaxley. "The brats of Mudbloods do not stir our sympathies."

     Mrs. Cattermole's sobs masked Harry's footsteps as he made his way 
carefully toward the steps that led up to the raised platform. The moment he 
had passed the place where the Patronus cat patrolled, he felt the change in 
temperature: It was warm and comfortable here. The Patronus, he was sure, was 
Umbridge's, and it glowed brightly because she was so happy here, in her 
element, upholding the twisted laws she had helped to write. Slowly and very 
carefully he edged his way along the platform behind Umbridge, Yaxley, and 
Hermione, taking a seat behind the latter. He was worried about making Hermione 
jump. He thought of casting the Muffliato charm upon Umbridge and Yaxley, but 
even murmuring the word might cause Hermione alarm. Then Umbridge raised her 
voice to address Mrs. Cattermole, and Harry seized his chance.

"I'm behind you," he whispered into Hermione's ear.

     As he had expected, she jumped so violently she nearly overturned the 
bottle of ink with which she was supposed to be recording the interview, but 
both Umbridge and Yaxley were concentrating upon Mrs. Cattermole, and this went 

     "A wand was taken from you upon your arrival at the Ministry today, Mrs. 
Cattermole," Umbridge was saying. "Eight-and-three-quarter inches, cherry, unicorn-hair 
core. Do you recognize the description?"

Mrs. Cattermole nodded, mopping her eyes on her sleeve.

"Could you please tell us from which witch or wizard you took that wand?"

     "T-took?" sobbed Mrs. Cattermole. "I didn't t-take it from anybody. I b-bought 
it when I was eleven years old. It - it - it - chose me."

She cried harder than ever.

     Umbridge laughed a soft girlish laugh that made Harry want to attack her. 
She leaned forward over the barrier, the better to observe her victim, and 
something gold swung forward too, and dangled over the void: the locket.

     Hermione had seen it; she let out a little squeak, but Umbridge and 
Yaxley, still intent upon their prey, were deaf to everything else.

     "No," said Umbridge, "no, I don't think so, Mrs. Cattermole. Wands only choose 
witches or wizards. You are not a witch. I have your responses to the questionnaire that was sent 
to you here - Mafalda, pass them to me."

     Umbridge held out a small hand: She looked so toadlike at that moment that 
Harry was quite surprised not to see webs between the stubby fingers. 
Hermione's hands were shaking with shock. She fumbled in a pile of documents 
balanced on the chair beside her, finally withdrawing a sheaf of parchment with 
Mrs. Cattermole's name on it.

     "That's - that's pretty, Dolores," she said, pointing at the pendant 
gleaming in the ruffled folds of Umbridge's blouse.

     "What?" snapped Umbridge, glancing down. "Oh yes - an old family heirloom," she said, patting 
the locket lying on her large bosom. "The S stands for Selwyn.... I am related to the Selwyns.... Indeed, there 
are few pure-blood families to whom I am not related. .. .A pity," she continued in a louder voice, flicking 
through Mrs. Cattermole's questionnaire, "that the same cannot be said for you. 'Parentsprofessions: 

     Yaxley laughed jeeringly. Below, the fluffy silver cat patrolled up and 
down, and the dementors stood waiting in the corners.

     It was Umbridge's lie that brought the blood surging into Harry's brain and 
obliterated his sense of caution - that the locket she had taken as a bribe from a 
petty criminal was being used to bolster her own pure-blood credentials. He raised 
his wand, not even troubling to keep it concealed beneath the Invisibility Cloak, 
and said, " Stupefy r

     There was a flash of red light; Umbridge crumpled and her forehead hit the edge 
of the balustrade: Mrs. Cattermole's papers slid off her lap onto the floor and, 
down below, the prowling silver cat vanished. Ice-cold air hit them like an oncoming 
wind: Yaxley, confused, looked around for the source of the trouble and saw Harry's 
disembodied hand and wand pointing at him. He tried to draw his own wand, but too 
late: " Stupefy r

Yaxley slid to the ground to lie curled on the floor.


"Hermione, if you think I was going to sit here and let her pretend -"

"Harry, Mrs. Cattermole!"

     Harry whirled around, throwing off the Invisibility Cloak; down below, the 
dementors had moved out of their corners; they were gliding toward the woman 
chained to the chair: Whether because the Patronus had vanished or because they 
sensed that their masters were no longer in control, they seemed to have 
abandoned restraint. Mrs. Cattermole let out a terrible scream of fear as a 
slimy, scabbed hand grasped her chin and forced her face back.


     The silver stag soared from the tip of Harry's wand and leaped toward the 
dementors, which fell back and melted into the dark shadows again. The stag's 
light, more powerful and more warming than the cat's protection, filled the 
whole dungeon as it cantered around the room.

"Get the Horcrux," Harry told Hermione.

     He ran back down the steps, stuffing the Invisibility Cloak into his back, 
and approached Mrs. Cattermole.

     "You?" she whispered, gazing into his face. "But - but Reg said you were the 
one who submitted my name for questioning!"

     "Did I?" muttered Harry, tugging at the chains binding her arms, "Well, I've had a change 
of heart. Diffindo!" Nothing happened. "Hermione, how do I get rid of these chains?"

"Wait, I'm trying something up here -"

"Hermione, we're surrounded by dementors!"

     "I know that, Harry, but if she wakes up and the locket's gone -1 need to 
duplicate it - Geminio! There... That should fool her...."

Hermione came running downstairs.

"Let's see.... Relashiof

     The chains clinked and withdrew into the arms of the chair. Mrs. 
Cattermole looked just as frightened as ever before.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

     "You're going to leave here with us," said Harry, pulling her to her feet. "Go 
home, grab your children, and get out, get out of the country if you've got to. Disguise yourselves 
and run. You've seen how it is, you won't get anything like a fair hearing here."

     "Harry," said Hermione, "how are we going to get out of here with all those 
dementors outside the door?"

     "Patronuses," said Harry, pointing his wand at his own. The stag slowed and walked, 
still gleaming brightly, toward the door. "As many as we can muster; do yours, Hermione."

"Expec -Expectopatronum," said Hermione. Nothing happened.

     "It's the only spell she ever has trouble with," Harry told a completely bemused 
Mrs. Cattermole. "Bit unfortunate, really... Come on Hermione...."

'Expecto patronum /"

     A silver otter burst from the end of Hermione's wand and swam gracefully 
through the air to join the stag.

"C'mon," said Harry, and he led Hermione and Mrs. Cattermole to the door.

     When the Patronuses glided out of the dungeon there were cries of shock 
from the people waiting outside. Harry looked around; the dementors were 
falling back on both sides of them, melding into the darkness, scattering 
before the silver creatures.

     "It's been decided that you should all go home and go into hiding with your 
families," Harry told the waiting Muggle-born, who were dazzled by the light of the Patronuses 
and still cowering slightly. "Go abroad if you can. Just get well away from the Ministry. 
That's the - er - new official position. Now, if you'll just follow the Patronuses, you'll be able 
to leave the Atrium."

     They managed to get up the stone stops without being intercepted, but as 
they approached the lifts Harry started to have misgivings. If they emerged 
into the Atrium with a silver stag, and otter soaring alongside it, and twenty 
or so people, half of them accused Muggle-borns, he could not help feeling that 
they would attract unwanted attention. He had just reached this unwelcome 
conclusion when the lift clanged to a halt in front of them.

     "Reg!" screamed Mrs. Cattermole, and she threw herself into Ron's arms. 
"Runcorn let me out, he attacked Umbridge and Yaxley, and he's told all of us to leave the 
country. I think we'd better do it, Reg, I really do, let's hurry home and fetch the children and - 
why are you so wet?"

     "Water," muttered Ron, disengaging himself. "Harry, they know there are 
intruders inside the Ministry, something about a hole in Umbridge's office door. I reckon we've got 
five minutes if that -"

     Hermione's Patronus vanished with a,pop as she turned a horror struck face 
to Harry.

"Harry, if we're trapped here - !"

     "We won't be if we move fast," said Harry. He addressed the silent group 
behind them, who were all gawping at him.

"Who's got wands?"

About half of them raised their hands.

     "Okay, all of you who haven't got wands need to attach yourself to somebody who 
has. We'll need to be fast before they stop us. Come on."

     They managed to cram themselves into two lifts. Harry's Patronus stood 
sentinel before the golden grilles as they shut and the lifts began to rise.

"Level eight," said the witch's cool voice, "Atrium."

     Harry knew at once that they were in trouble. The Atrium was full of 
people moving from fireplace to fireplace, sealing them off.

"Harry!" squeaked Hermione. "What are we going to - ?"

     "STOP!" Harry thundered, and the powerful voice of Runcorn echoed through the 
Atrium: The wizards sealing the fireplaces froze. "Follow me," he whispered to the group 
of terrified Muggle-borns, who moved forward in a huddle, shepherded by Ron and Hermione.

     "What's up, Albert?" said the same balding wizard who had followed Harry 
out of the fireplace earlier. He looked nervous.

     "This lot need to leave before you seal the exits," said Harry with all 
the authority he could muster.

The group of wizards in front of him looked at one another.

"We've been told to seal all exits and not let anyone -"

     "Are you contradicting me?" Harry blustered. "Would you like me to have your 
family tree examined, like I had Dirk Cresswell's?"

     "Sorry!" gasped the balding wizard, backing away. "I didn't mean nothing, 
Albert, but I thought... I thought they were in for questioning and.

     "Their blood is pure," said Harry, and his deep voice echoed impressively through 
the hall. "Purer than many of yours, I daresay. Off you go," he boomed to the 
Muggle-borns, who scurried forward into the fireplaces and began to vanish in pairs. The Ministry 
wizards hung back, some looking confused, others scared and fearful. Then:


     Mrs. Cattermole looked over her shoulder. The real Reg Cattermole, no 
longer vomiting but pale and wan, had just come running out of a lift.

"R- Reg?"

She looked from her husband to Ron, who swore loudly.

     The balding wizard gaped, his head turning ludicrously from one Reg 
Cattermole to the other.

"Hey - what's going on? What is this?"

"Seal the exit! SEAL IT!"

     Yaxley had burst out of another lift and was running toward the group 
beside the fireplaces, into which all of the Muggle-borns but Mrs. Cattermole 
had now vanished. As the balding wizard lifted his wand, Harry raised an 
enormous fist and punched him, sending him flying through the air.

"He's been helping Muggle-borns escape, Yaxley!" Harry shouted.

     The balding wizard's colleagues set up and uproar, under cover of which Ron grabbed 
Mrs. Cattermole, pulled her into the still-open fireplace, and disappeared. Confused, 
Yaxley looked from Harry to the punched wizard, while the real Reg Cattermole screamed, 
"My wife! Who was that with my wife? What's going on?"

Harry saw Yaxley's head turn, saw an inkling of truth dawn on that brutish face.

     "Come on!" Harry shouted at Hermione; he seized her hand and they jumped 
into the fireplace together as Yaxley's curse sailed over Harry's head. They spun for a 
few seconds before shooting up out of a toilet into a cubicle. Harry flung open the door: 
Ron was standing there beside the sinks, still wrestling with Mrs. Cattermole.

"Reg, I don't understand -"

"Let go, I'm not your husband, you've got to go home!"

     There was a noise in the cubicle behind them; Harry looked around; Yaxley 
had just appeared.

     "LET'S GO!" Harry yelled. He seized Hermione by the hand and Ron by the 
arm and turned on the stop.

     Darkness engulfed them, along with the sensation of compressing hands, but 
something was wrong.... Hermione's hand seemed to be sliding out of his grip....

     He wondered whether he was going to suffocate; he could not breathe or see 
and the only solid things in the world were Ron's arm and Hermione's fingers, 
which were slowly slipping away....

     And then he saw the door to number twelve, Grimmauld Place, with its 
serpent door knocker, but before he could draw breath, there was a scream and a 
flash of purple light: Hermione's hand was suddenly vicelike upon his and 
everything went dark again.

Chapter Fourteen The Thief

     Harry opened his eyes and was dazzled by gold and green; he had no idea 
what had happened, he only knew that he was lying on what seemed to be leaves 
and twigs. Struggling to draw breath into lungs that felt flattened, he blinked 
and realized that the gaudy glare was sunlight streaming through a canopy of 
leaves far above him. Then an

object twitched close to his face. He pushed himself onto his hands and knees, 
ready to face some small, fierce creature, but saw that the object was Ron's 
foot. Looking around, Harry saw that they and Hermione were lying on a forest 
floor, apparently alone.

     Harry's first thought was of the Forbidden Forest, and for a moment, even 
though he knew how foolish and dangerous it would be for them to appear in the 
grounds of Hogwarts, his heart leapt at the thought of sneaking through the 
trees to Hagrid's hut. However, in the few moments it took for Ron to give a 
low groan and Harry to start crawling toward him, he realized that this was not 
the Forbidden Forest; The trees looked younger, they were more widely spaced, 
the ground clearer.

     He met Hermione, also on her hands and knees, at Ron's head. The moment 
his eyes fell upon Ron, all other concerns fled Harry's mind, for blood 
drenched the whole of Ron's left side and his face stood out, grayish-white, 
against the leaf-strewn earth. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off now: Ron 
was halfway between Cattermole and himself in appearance, his hair turning 
redder and redder as his face drained of the little color it had left.

"What's happened to him?"

     "Splinched," said Hermione, her fingers already busy at Ron's sleeve, 
where the blood was wettest and darkest.

     Harry watched, horrified, as she tore open Ron's short. He had always 
thought of Splinching as something comical, but this . . . His insides crawled 
unpleasantly as Hermione laid bare Ron's upper arm, where a great chunk of 
flesh was missing, scooped cleanly away as though by a knife.

"Harry, quickly, in my bag, there's a small bottle labeled 'Essence of Dittany'- 

"Bag - right -"

     Harry sped to the place where Hermione had landed, seized the tiny beaded 
bag, and thrust his hand inside it. At once, object after object began 
presenting itself to his touch: He felt the leather spines of books, woolly 
sleeves of jumpers, heels of shoes -


     He grabbed his wand from the ground and pointed it into the depths of the 
magical bag.

"Actio Dittany!"

     A small brown bottle zoomed out of the bag; he caught it and hastened back 
to Hermione and Ron, whose eyes were now half-closed, strips of white eyeball 
all that were visible between his lids.

     "He's fainted," said Hermione, who was also rather pale; she no longer looked like 
Mafalda, though her hair was still gray in places. "Unstopper it for me, Harry, my hands are 

     Harry wrenched the stopper off the little bottle, Hermione took it and 
poured three drops of the potion onto the bleeding wound. Greenish smoke 
billowed upward and when it had cleared, Harry saw that the bleeding had 
stopped. The wound now looked several days old; new skin stretched over what 
had just been open flesh.

"Wow," said Harry.

     "It's all I feel safe doing," said Hermione shakily. "There are spells that 
would put him completely right, but I daren't try in case I do them wrong and cause more damage. . 
. . He's lost so much blood already. . . ."

     "How did he get hurt? I mean" - Harry shook his head, trying to clear it, to make 
sense of whatever had just taken place - "why are we here? I thought we were going back to 
Grimmauld Place?"

Hermione took a deep breath. She looked close to tears.

"Harry, I don't think we're going to be able to go back there."

"What d'you - ?"

     "As we Disapparated, Yaxley caught hold of me and I couldn't get rid of him, he 
was too strong, and he was still holding on when we arrived at Grimmauld Place, and then 
- well, I think he must have seen the door, and thought we were stopping there, so he 
slackened his grip and I managed to sake him off and I brought us here instead!"

     "But then, where's he? Hang on. . . . You don't mean he's at Grimmauld Place? 
He can't get in there?"

Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears as she nodded.

     "Harry, I think he can. I -1 forced him to let go with a Revulsion Jinx, but 
I'd already taken him inside the Fidelius Charm's protection. Since Dumbledore died, 
we're Secret-Keepers, so I've given him the secret, haven't I?"

     There was no pretending; Harry was sure she was right. It was a serious 
blow. If Yaxley could now get inside the house, there was no way that they 
could return. Even now, he could be bringing other Death Eaters in there by 
Apparition. Gloomy and oppressive though the house was, it had been their one 
safe refuge; even, now that Kreacher was so much happier and friendlier, a kind 
of home. With a twinge of regret that had nothing to do with food, Harry 
imagined the house-elf busying himself over the steak-and-kidney pie that 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione would never eat.

"Harry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!"

"Don't be stupid, it wasn't your fault! If anything, it was mine. . . ."

     Harry put his hand in his pocket and drew out Mad-Eye's eye. Hermione 
recoiled, looking horrified.

     "Umbridge had stuck it to her office door, to spy on people. I couldn't leave 
it there . . . but that's how they knew there were intruders."

     Before Hermione could answer, Ron groaned and opened his eyes. He was 
still gray and his face glistened with sweat.

"How d'you feel?" Hermione whispered.

"Lousy," croaked Ron, wincing as he felt his injured arm. "Where are we?"

     "In the woods where they held the Quidditch World Cup," said Hermione. "I 
wanted somewhere enclosed, undercover, and this was -"

     "- the first place you thought of," Harry finished for her, glancing 
around at the apparently deserted glade. He could not help remembering what had happened 
the last time they had Apparated to the first place Hermione had thought of- how Death 
Eaters had found them within minutes. Had it been Legilimency? Did Voldemort or his 
henchmen know, even now, where Hermione had taken them?

     "D'you reckon we should move on?" Ron asked Harry, and Harry could tell by 
the look on Ron's face that he was thinking the same.

"I dunno."

     Ron still looked pale and clammy. He had made no attempt to sit up and it 
looked as though he was too weak to do so. The prospect of moving him was 

"Let's stay here for now," Harry said.

Looking relieved, Hermione sprang to her feet.

"Where are you going?" asked Ron.

     "If we're staying, we should put some protective enchantments around the 
place," she replied, and raising her wand, she began to walk in a wide circle around 
Harry and Ron, murmuring incantations as she went. Harry saw little disturbances in the 
surrounding air: It was as if Hermione had cast a heat haze upon their clearing.

     "Salvio Hexia . . . Protego Totalum . . . Repello Muggletum . . . Muffliato . . 
. You could get out the tent, Harry. . . ."


"In the bag!"

"In the . . . of course," said Harry.

    He did not bother to grope inside it this time, but used another Summoning 
Charm. The tent emerged in a lumpy mass of canvas, ropes, and poles. Harry 
recognized it, partly because of the smell of cats, as the same tent in which 
they had slept on the night of the Quidditch World Cup.

     "I thought this belonged to that bloke Perkins at the Ministry?" he asked, 
starting to disentangle the pent pegs.

     "Apparently he didn't want it back, his lumbago's so bad," said Hermione, now 
performing complicated figure-of-eight movements with her wand, "so Ron's dad said I could 
borrow it. Erecto!" she added, pointing her wand at the misshapen canvas, which in one fluid 
motion rose into the air and settled, fully constructed, onto the ground before Harry, out of whose 
startled hands a tent peg soared, to land with a final thud at the end of a guy rope.

     "Cave Inimicum," Hermione finished with a skyward flourish. "That's as much as 
I can do. At the very least, we should know they're coming; I can't guarantee it will keep out Vol 

"Don't say the name!" Ron cut across her, his voice harsh.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other.

     "I'm sorry," Ron said, moaning a little as he raised himself to look at them, 
"but it feels like a - a jinx or something. Can't we call him You-Know-Who - please?"

"Dumbledore said fear of a name -" began Harry.

     "In case you hadn't noticed, mate, calling You-Know-Who by his name didn't do Dumbledore 
much good in the end," Ron snapped back. "Just -just show You-Know-Who some respect, will 

     "Respect?" Harry repeated, but Hermione shot him a warning look; 
apparently he was not to argue with Ron while the latter was in such a weakened condition.

     Harry and Hermione half carried, half dragged Ron through the entrance of 
the tent. The interior was exactly as Harry remembered it; a small flat, 
complete with bathroom and tiny kitchen. He shoved aside an old armchair and 
lowered Ron carefully onto the lower berth of a bunk bed. Even this very short 
journey had turned Ron whiter still, and once they had settled him on the 
mattress he closed his eyes again and did not speak for a while.

     "I'll make some tea," said Hermione breathlessly, pulling kettle and mugs 
from the depths of her bag and heading toward the kitchen.

     Harry found the hot drink as welcome as the firewhisky had been on the 
night that Mad-Eye had died; it seemed to burn away a little of the fear 
fluttering in his chest. After a minute or two, Ron broke the silence.

"What d'you reckon happened to the Cattermoles?"

     "With any luck, they'll have got away," said Hermione, clutching her hot mug for 
comfort. "As long as Mr. Cattermole had his wits about him, he'll have transported Mrs. 
Cattermole by Side-Along-Apparition and they'll be fleeing the country right now with their 
children. That's what Harry told her to do."

     "Blimey, I hope they escaped," said Ron, leaning back on his pillows. The tea seemed 
to be doing him good; a little of his color had returned. "I didn't get the feeling Reg 
Cattermole was all that quick-witted, though, the way everyone was talking to me when I was him. 
God, I hope they made it. . . . If they both end up in Azkaban because of us . . ."

     Harry looked over at Hermione and the question he had been about to ask - 
about whether Mrs. Cattermole's lack of a wand would prevent her Apparating 
alongside her husband - died in his throat. Hermione was watching Ron fret over 
the fate of the Cattermoles, and there was such tenderness in her expression 
that Harry felt almost as if he had surprised her in the act of kissing him.

"So, have you got it?" Harry asked her, partly to remind her that he was there.

"Got - got what?" she said with a little start.

"What did we just go through all that for? The locket! Where's the locket?"

     'Tow got it?" shouted Ron, raising himself a little higher on his pillows. "No 
one tells me anything! Blimey, you could have mentioned it!"

     "Well, we were running for our lives from the Death Eaters, weren't we?" said 
Hermione. "Here."

And she pulled the locket out of the pocket of her robes and handed it to Ron.

     It was as large as a chicken's egg. An ornate letter S, inlaid with many 
small green stones, glinted dully in the diffused light shining through the 
tent's canvas roof.

     "There isn't any chance someone's destroyed it since Kreacher had it?" asked Ron 
hopefully. "I mean, are we sure it's still a Horcrux?"

     "I think so," said Hermione, taking it back from him and looking at it closely. 
"There'd be some sign of damage if it had been magically destroyed."

     She passed it to Harry, who turned it over in his fingers. The thing 
looked perfect, pristine. He remembered the mangled remains of the diary, and 
how the stone in the Horcrux ring had been cracked open when Dumbledore 
destroyed it.

     "I reckon Kreacher's right," said Harry. "We're going to have to work out how 
to open this thing before we can destroy it."

     Sudden awareness of what he was holding, of what lived behind the little 
golden doors, hit Harry as he spoke. Even after all their efforts to find it, 
he felt a violent urge to fling the locket from him. Mastering himself again, 
he tried to prise the locket apart with his fingers, then attempted the charm 
Hermione had used to open Regulus's bedroom door. Neither worked. He handed the 
locket back to Ron and Hermione, each of whom did their best, but were no more 
successful at opening it than he had been.

     "Can you feel it, though?" Ron asked in a hushed voice, as he held it 
tight in his clenched fist.

"What d'you mean?"

     Ron passed the Horcrux to Harry. After a moment or two, Harry thought he 
knew what Ron meant. Was it his own blood pulsing through his veins that he 
could feel, or was it something beating inside the locket, like a tiny metal 

"What are we going to do with it?" Hermione asked.

     "Keep it safe till we work out how to destroy it." Harry replied, and, 
little though he wanted to, he hung the chain around his own neck, dropping the locket 
out of sight beneath his robes, where it rested against his chest beside the pouch Hagrid 
had given him.

     "I think we should take it in turns to keep watch outside the tent," he added to 
Hermione, standing up and stretching. "And we'll need to think about some food as well. You 
stay there," he added sharply, as Ron attempted to sit up and turned a nasty shade of green.

     With the Sneakoscope Hermione had given Harry for his birthday set 
carefully upon the table in the tent, Harry and Hermione spent the rest of the 
day sharing the role of lookout. However, the Sneakoscope remained silent and 
still upon its point all day, and whether because of the protective 
enchantments and Muggle-repelling charms Hermione had spread around them, or 
because people rarely ventured this way, their patch of wood remained deserted, 
apart from occasional birds and squirrels. Evening brought no change; Harry lit 
his wand as he swapped places with Hermione at ten o'clock, and looked out upon 
a deserted scene, noting the bats fluttering high above him across the single 
patch of starry sky visible from their protected clearing.

     He felt hungry now, and a little light-headed. Hermione had not packed any 
food in her magical bag, as she had assumed that they would be returning to 
Grimmauld Place that night, so they had had nothing to eat except some wild 
mushrooms that Hermione had collected from amongst the nearest trees and stewed 
in a Billycan. After a couple of mouthfuls Ron had pushed his portion away, 
looking queasy; Harry had only persevered so as to not hurt Hermione's feelings.

     The surrounding silence was broken by odd rustlings and what sounded like 
crackings of twigs: Harry thought that they were caused by animals rather than 
people, yet he kept his wand held tight at the ready. His insides, already 
uncomfortable due to their inadequate helping of rubbery mushrooms, tingled 
with unease.

     He had though that he would feel elated if they managed to steal back the 
Horcrux, but somehow he did not; all he felt as he sat looking out at the 
darkness, of which his wand lit only a tiny part, was worry about what would 
happen next. It was as though he had been hurtling toward this point for weeks, 
months, maybe even years, but how he had come to an abrupt halt, run out of 

     There were other Horcruxes out there somewhere, but he did not have the 
faintest idea where they could be. He did not even know what all of them were. 
Meanwhile he was at a loss to know how to destroy the only one that they had 
found, the Horcrux that currently lay against the bare flesh of his chest. 
Curiously, it had not taken heat from his body, but lay so cold against his 
skin it might just have emerged from icy water. From time to time Harry 
thought, or perhaps imagined, that he could feel the tiny heartbeat ticking 
irregularly alongside his own. Nameless forebodings crept upon him as he sat 
there in the dark. He tried to resist them, push them away, yet they came at 
him relentlessly. Neither can live while the other survives. Ron and Hermione, 
now talking

softly behind him in the tent, could walk away if they wanted to: He could not. 
And it seemed to Harry as he sat there trying to master his own fear and 
exhaustion, that the Horcrux against his chest was ticking away the time he had 
left. . . . Stupid idea, he told himself, don't think that. . . .

     His scar was starting to prickle again. He was afraid that he was making 
it happen by having these thoughts, and tried to direct them into another 
channel. He thought of poor Kreacher, who had expected them home and had 
received Yaxley instead. Would the elf keep silent or would he tell the Death 
Eater everything he knew? Harry wanted to believe that Kreacher had changed 
towards him in the past month, that he would be loyal now, but who knew what 
would happen? What if the Death Eaters tortured the elf? Sick images swarmed 
into Harry's head and he tried to push these away too, for there was nothing he 
could do for Kreacher: He and Hermione had already decided against trying to 
summon him; what if someone from the Ministry came too? They could not count on 
elfish Apparition being free from the same flaw that had taken Yaxley to 
Grimmauld Place on the hem of Hermione's sleeve.

     Harry's scar was burning now. He thought that there was so much they did 
not know: Lupin had been right about magic they had never encountered or 
imagined. Why hadn't Dumbledore explained more? Had he thought that there would 
be time; that he would live for years, for centuries perhaps, like his friend 
Nicolas Flamel? If so, he had been wrong. . . . Snape had seen to that. . . . 
Snape, the sleeping snake, who had struck at the top of the tower . . .

And Dumbledore had fallen . . . fallen . . .

"Give it to me, Gregorovitch.'"

     Harry's voice was high, clear, and cold, his wand held in front of him by 
a long-fingered white hand. The man at whom he was pointing was suspended 
upside down in midair, though there were no ropes holding him; he swung there, 
invisibly and eerily bound, his limbs wrapped about him, his terrified face, on 
a level with Harry's ruddy due to the blood that had rushed to his head. He had 
pure-white hair and a thick, bushy beard: a trussed-up Father Christmas.

"I have it not, I have it no more! It was, many years ago, stolen from me!"

"Do not lie to Lord Voldemort, Gregorovitch. He knows. ... He always knows."

     The hanging man's pupils were wide, dilated with fear, and they seemed to 
swell, bigger and bigger until their blackness swallowed Harry whole -

     And how Harry was hurrying along a dark corridor in stout little 
Gregorovitch's wake as he held a lantern aloft: Gregorovitch burst into the 
room at the end of the passage and his lantern illuminated what looked like a 
workshop; wood shavings and gold gleamed in the swinging pool of light, and 
there on the window ledge sat perched, like a giant bird, a young man with 
golden hair. In the split second that the lantern's light illuminated him, 
Harry saw the delight upon his handsome face, then the intruder shot a Stunning 
Spell from his wand and jumped neatly backward out of the window with a crow of 

     And Harry was hurtling back out of those wide, tunnellike pupils and 
Gregorovitch's face was stricken with terror.

"Who was the thief, Gregorovitch?" said the high cold voice.

"/ do not know, I never knew, a young man - no -please - PLEASE!"

A scream that went on and on and then a burst of green light -


     He opened his eyes, panting, his forehead throbbing. He had passed out 
against the side of the tent, had slid sideways down the canvas, and was 
sprawled on the ground. He looked up at Hermione, whose bushy hair obscured the 
tiny patch of sky visible through the dark branches high above them.

     "Dream," he said, sitting up quickly and attempting to meet Hermione's glower with a 
look of innocence. "Must've dozed off, sorry."

     "I know it was your scar! I can tell by the look on your face! You were looking 
into Vol -"

"Don't say his name!" came Ron's angry voice from the depths of the tent.

"Fine," retorted Hermione, "You-Know-Who's mind, then!"

     "I didn't mean it to happen!" Harry said. "It was a dream! Canyon control what 
you dream about, Hermione?"

"If you just learned to apply Occlumency -"

     But Harry was not interested in being told off; he wanted to discuss what 
he had just seen.

     "He's found Gregorovitch, Hermione, and I think he's killed him, but before he 
killed him he read Gregorovitch's mind and I saw -"

     "I think I'd better take over the watch if you're so tired you're falling 
sleep," said Hermione coldly.

"I can finish the watch!"

"No, you're obviously exhausted. Go and lie down."

     She dropped down in the mouth of the tent, looking stubborn. Angry, but 
wishing to avoid a row, Harry ducked back inside.

     Ron's still-pale face was poking out from the lower bunk; Harry climbed 
into the one above him, lay down, and looked up at the dark canvas ceiling. 
After several moments, Ron spoke in a voice so low that it would not carry to 
Hermione, huddle in the entrance.

"What's You-Know-Who doing?"

     Harry screwed up his eyes in the effort to remember every detail, then 
whispered into the darkness.

"He found Gregorovitch. He had him tied up, he was torturing him."

"How's Gregorovitch supposed to make him a new wand if he's tied up?"

"I dunno   It's weird, isn't it?"

     Harry closed his eyes, thinking of all that he had seen and heard. The 
more he recalled, the less sense it made. . . . Voldemort had said nothing 
about Harry's wand, nothing about the twin cores, nothing about Gregorovitch 
making a new and more powerful wand to beat Harry's. . . .

     "He wanted something from Gregorovitch," Harry said, eyes still closed tight. 
"He asked him to hand it over, but Gregorovitch said it had been stolen from him . . . and 
then . . . then . . ."

     He remembered how he, as Voldemort, had seemed to hurtle through 
Gregorovitch's eyes, into his memories. . . .

     "He read Gregorovitch's mind, and I saw this young bloke perched on a 
windowsill, and he fired a curse at Gregorovitch and jumped out of sight. He stole it, he 
stole whatever You-Know-Who's after. And I... I think I've seen him somewhere. . . ."

     Harry wished he could have another glimpse of the laughing boy's face. The 
theft had happened many years ago, according to Gregorovitch. Why did the young 
thief look familiar?

     The noises of the surrounding woods were muffled inside the tent; all Harry could 
hear was Ron's breathing. After a while, Ron whispered, "Couldn't you see what the 
thief was holding?"

"No ... it must've been something small."


The wooden slats of Ron's bunk creaked as he repositioned himself in bed.

     "Harry, you don't reckon You-Know-Who's after something else to turn into a 

     "I don't know," said Harry slowly. "Maybe. But wouldn't it be dangerous for him 
to make another one? Didn't Hermione say he had pushed his soul to the limit already?"

"Yeah, but maybe he doesn't know that."

"Yeah . . .maybe," said Harry.

     He had been sure that Voldemort had been looking for a way around the 
problem of the twin cores, sure that Voldemort sought a solution from the old 
wandmaker . . . and yet he had killed him, apparently without asking him a 
single question about wandlore.

     What was Voldemort trying to find? Why, with the Ministry of Magic and the 
Wizarding world at his feet, was he far away, intent on the pursuit of an 
object that Gregorovitch had once owned, and which had been stolen by the 
unknown thief?

     Harry could still see the blond-haired youth's face; it was merry, wild; 
there was a Fred and George-ish air of triumphant trickery about him. He had 
soared from the windowsill like a bird, and Harry had seen him before, but he 
could not think where. . . .

     With Gregorovitch dead, it was the merry-faced thief who was in danger 
now, and it was on him that Harry's thoughts dwelled, as Ron's snores began to 
rumble from the lower bunk and as he himself drifted slowly into sleep once 

Chapter Fifteen The Goblin's Revenge

     Early next morning, before the other two were awake, Harry left the tent 
to search the woods around them for the oldest, most gnarled, and 
resilient-looking tree he could find. There in its shadows he buried Mad-Eye 
Moody's eye and marked the spot by gouging a small cross in the bark with his 
wand. It was not much, but Harry felt that Mad-Eye would have much preferred 
this to being stuck on Dolores Umbridge's door. Then he returned to the tent to 
wait for the others to wake, and discuss what they were going to do next.

     Harry and Hermione felt that it was best not to stay anywhere too long, 
and Ron agreed, wit the sole proviso that their next move took them within 
reach of a bacon sandwich. Hermione therefore removed the enchantments she had 
placed around the clearing, while Harry and Ron obliterated all the marks and 
impressions on the ground that might show they had camped there. Then they 
Disapparated to the outskirts of a small market town.

     Once they had pitched the tent in the shelter of a small copse of trees 
and surrounded it with freshly cast defensive enchantments. Harry ventured out 
under the Invisibility Cloak to find sustenance. This, however, did not go as 
planned. He had barely entered the town when an unnatural chill, a descending 
mist, and a sudden darkening of the skies made him freeze where he stood.

"But you can make a brilliant Patronus!" protested Ron, when Harry arrived back 
at the tent empty handed, out of breath, and mouthing the single word, dementors.

     "I couldn't. . . make one." he panted, clutching the stitch in his side. 
"Wouldn't. . . come."

Their expressions of consternation and disappointment made Harry feel ashamed. 
It had been a nightmarish experience, seeing the dementors gliding out of the 
must in the distance and realizing, as the paralyzing cold choked his lungs and 
a distant screaming filled his ears, that he was not going to be able to 
protect himself. It had taken all Harry's willpower to uproot himself from the 
spot and run, leaving the eyeless dementors to glide amongst the Muggles who 
might not be able to see them, but would assuredly feel the despair they cast 
wherever they went.

"So we still haven't got any food."

     "Shut up, Ron," snapped Hermione. "Harry, what happened? Why do you think you 
couldn't make your Patronus? You managed perfectly yesterday!"

"I don't know."

     He sat low in one of Perkins's old armchairs, feeling more humiliated by 
the moment. He was afraid that something had gone wrong inside him. Yesterday 
seemed a long time ago: Today me might have been thirteen years old again, the 
only one who collapsed on the Hogwarts Express.

Ron kicked a chair leg.

     "What?" he snarled at Hermione. "I'm starving! All I've had since I bled half 
to death is a couple of toadstools!"

"You go and fight your way through the dementors, then," said Harry, stung.

"I would, but my arm's in a sling, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"That's convenient."

"And what's that supposed to ? ?"

     "Of course!" cried Hermione, clapping a hand to her forehead and startling both of them into 
silence. "Harry, give me the locket! Come on," she said impatiently, clicking her fingers at him 
when he did not react," to Horcrux, Harry, you're still wearing it!"

     She held out her hands, and Harry lifted the golden chain over his head. 
The moment it parted contact with Harry's skin he free and oddly light. He had 
not even realized that he was clammy or that there was a heavy weight pressing 
on his stomach until both sensations lifted.

"Better?" asked Hermione.

"Yeah, loads better!"

     "Harry," she said, crouching down in front of him and using the kind of voice he 
associated with visiting the very sick, "you don't think you've been possessed, do you?"

     "What? No!" he said defensively, "I remember everything we've done while I've 
bee wearing it. I wouldn't know what I'd done if I'd been possessed, would I? Ginny told me there 
were times when she couldn't remember anything."

     "Hmm," said Hermione, looking down at the heavy locket. "Well, maybe we ought 
not to wear it. We can just keep it in the tent."

     "We are not leaving that Horcrux lying around," Harry stated firmly. "If we 
lose it, if it gets stolen?"

     "Oh, all right, all right," said Hermione, and she placed it around her own neck and 
tucked it out of sight down the front of her shirt. "But we'll take turns wearing it, so 
nobody keeps it on too long."

     "Great," said Ron irritably, "and now we've sorted that out, can we please get 
some food?"

     "Fine, but we'll go somewhere else to find it," said Hermione with half a glance at 
Harry. "There's no point staying where we know dementors are swooping around."

     In the end they settled down for the night in a far flung field belonging 
to a lonely farm, from which they had managed to obtain eggs and bread.

     "It's not stealing, is it?" asked Hermione in a troubled voice, as they devoured 
scrambled eggs on toast. "Not if I left some money under the chicken coo?"

     Ron rolled his eyes and said, with his cheeks bulging, "Er-my-nee, 'oo worry 
'oo much. 'Elax!"

     And, indeed, it was much easier to relax when they were comfortably well 
fed. The argument about the dementors was forgotten in laughter that night, and 
Harry felt cheerful, even hopeful, as he took the first of the three night 

     This was their first encounter with the fact that a full stomach meant 
good spirits, an empty one, bickering and gloom. Harry was least surprised by 
this, because be had suffered periods of near starvation at the Dursleys'. 
Hermione bore up reasonably well on those nights when they managed to scavenge 
nothing but berries or stale biscuits, her temper perhaps a little shorter than 
usual and her silences dour. Ron, however, had always been used to three 
delicious meals a day, courtesy of his mother or of the Hogwarts house-elves, 
and hunger made him both unreasonable and irascible. Whenever lack of food 
coincided with Ron's turn to wear the Horcrux, he became downright unpleasant.

     "So where next?" was his constant refrain. He did not seem to have any 
ideas himself, but expected Harry and Hermione to come up with plans while he sat and 
brooded over the low food supplies. Accordingly Harry and Hermione spent fruitless hours 
trying to decide where they might find the other Horcruxes, and how to destroy the one 
they already got, their conversations becoming increasingly repetitive as they got no new 

     As Dumbledore had told Harry that be believed Voldemort had hidden the 
Horcruxes in places important to him, they kept reciting, in a sort of dreary 
litany, those locations they knew that Voldemort had lived or visited. The 
orphanage where he had been born and raised: Hogwarts, where he had been 
educated; Borgin and Burks, where he had worked after completing school; then 
Albania, where he had spent his years of exile: These formed the basis of their 

     "Yeah, let's go to Albania. Shouldn't take more than an afternoon to search an 
entire country," said Ron sarcastically.

     "There can't be anything there. He'd already made five of his Horcruxes before he went 
into exile, and Dumbledore was certain the snake is the sixth," said Hermione. "We know 
the snake's not in Albania, it's usually with Vol?"

"Didn't I ask you to stop say that?"

"Fine! The snake is usually with You-Know-Who?happy?"

"Not particularly."

     "I can't see him hiding anything at Borgin and Burkes." said Harry, who had made 
this point many times before, but said it again simply to break the nasty silence. "Borgin and 
Burke were experts at Dark objects, they would've recognized a Horcrux straightaway."

     Ron yawned pointedly. Repressing a strong urge to throw something at him, Harry 
plowed on, "I still reckon he might have hidden something at Hogwarts."

Hermione sighed.

"But Dumbledore would have found it, Harry!"

Harry repeated the argument he kept bringing out in favor of this theory.

     "Dumbledore said in front of me that he never assumed he knew all of Hogwart's 
secrets. I'm telling you, if there was one place Vol?"


     "YOU-KNOW-WHO, then!" Harry shouted, goaded past endurance. "If there was one 
place that was really important to You-Know-Who, it was Hogwarts!"

"Oh, come on," scoffed Ron. "His school?"

     "Yeah, his school! It was his first real home, the place that meant he was 
special: it meant everything to him, and even after he left?"

     "This is You-Know-Who we're talking about, right? Not you?" inquired Ron. 
He was tugging at the chain of the Horcrux around his neck; Harry was visited by a desire 
to seize it and throttle him.

     "You told us that You-Know-Who asked Dumbledore to give him a job after he 
left," said Hermione.

"That's right," said Harry.

     "And Dumbledore thought he only wanted to come back to try and find something, 
probably another founder's object, to make into another Horcrux?"

"Yeah," said Harry.

     "But he didn't get the job, did he?" said Hermione. "So he never got the chance 
to find a founder's object there and hide it in the school!"

"Okay, then," said Harry, defeated. "Forget Hogwarts."

     Without any other leads, they traveled into London and, hidden beneath the 
Invisibility Cloak, search for the orphanage in which Voldemort had been 
raised. Hermione stole into a library and discovered from their records that 
the place had been demolished many years before. They visited its site and 
found a tower block of offices.

"We could try digging in to foundations?" Hermione suggested halfheartedly. "He 
wouldn't have hidden a Horcrux here," Harry said. He had known it all along. The orphanage had 
been the place Voldemort had been determined to escape; he would never have hidden a part of his 
soul there. Dumbledore had shown Harry that Voldemort sought grandeur or mystique in his hiding 
places; this dismal gray corner of London was as far removed as you could imagine from Hogwarts of 
the Ministry or a building like Gringotts, the Wizarding banks, with its gilded doors and marble 

     Even without any new idea, they continued to move through the countryside, 
pitching the tent in a different place each night for security. Every morning 
they made sure that they had removed all clues to their presence, then set off 
to find another lonely

and secluded spot, traveling by Apparition to more woods, to the shadowy 
crevices of cliffs, to purple moors, gorse-covered mountainsides, and once a 
sheltered and pebbly cove. Every twelve hours or so they passed the Horcrux 
between them as though they were playing some perverse, slow-motion game of 
pass-the-parcel, where they dreaded the music stopping because the reward was 
twelve hours of increased fear and anxiety.

     Harry's scare kept prickling. It happened most often, he noticed, when he 
was wearing the Horcrux. Sometimes he could not stop himself reacting to the 

"What? What did you see?" demanded Ron, whenever he noticed Harry wince.

     "A face," muttered Harry, every time. "The same face. The thief who stole from 

     And Ron would turn away, making no effort to hide his disappointment. 
Harry knew that Ron was hoping to bear news of his family or the rest of the 
Order of the Phoenix, but after all, he, Harry, was not a television aerial; he 
could only see what Voldemort was thinking at the time, not tune in to whatever 
took his fancy. Apparently Voldemort was dwelling endlessly on the unknown 
youth with the gleeful face, whose name and whereabouts, Harry felt sure, 
Voldemort knew no better than he did. As Harry's scar continued to burn and the 
merry, blond-haired boy swam tantalizingly in his memory, he learned to 
suppress any sign of pain or discomfort, for the other two showed nothing but 
impatience at the mention of the thief. He could not entirely blame them, when 
they were so desperate for a lean on the Horcruxes.

     As the days stretched into weeks, Harry began to suspect that Ron and 
Hermione were having conversations without, and about, him. Several times they 
stopped talking abruptly when Harry entered the tent, and twice he came 
accidentally upon them, huddled a little distance away, heads together and 
talking fast; both times they fell silent when they realized he was approaching 
them and hastened to appear busy collecting wood or water.

     Harry could not help wondering whether they had only agreed to come on 
what now felt like a pointless and rambling journey because they thought he had 
some secret plan that they would learn in due course. Ton was making no effort 
to hide his bad mood, and Harry was starting to fear that Hermione too was 
disappointed by his poor leadership. In desperation he tried to think of 
further Horcrux locations, but the only one that continued to occur to him was 
Hogwarts, and as neither of the others thought this at all likely, he stopped 
suggesting it.

     Autumn rolled over the countryside as they moved through it. They were now 
pitching the tent on mulches of fallen leaves. Natural mists joined those cast 
by the dementors; wind and rain added to their troubles. The fact that Hermione 
was getting better at identifying edible fungi could not altogether compensate 
for their continuing isolation, the lack of other people's company, or their 
total ignorance of what was going on in the war against Voldemort.

     "My mother," said Ron on night, as they sat in the tent on a riverbank in Wales, 
"can make good food appear out of thin air."

     He prodded moodily at the lumps of charred gray fish on his plate. Harry 
glanced automatically at Ron's neck and saw, as he has expected, the golden 
chain of the Horcrux glinting there. He managed to fight down the impulse to 
swear at Ron, whose attitude would, he knew, improve slightly when the time 
came to take off the locket.

     "Your mother can't produce food out of thin air," said Hermione. "no one can. 
Food is the first of the five Principal Exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfigura?"

     "Oh, speak English, can't you?" Ron said, prising a fish out from between 
his teeth.

     "It's impossible to make good food out of nothing! You can Summon it if you 
know where it is, you can transform it, you can increase the quantity if you've already 
got some?"

"Well, don't bother increasing this, it's disgusting," said Ron.

     "Harry caught the fish and I did my best with it! I notice I'm always the one 
who ends up sorting out the food, because I'm a girl, I suppose!"

"No, it's because you're supposed to be the best at magic!" shot back Ron.

Hermione jumped up and bits of roast pike slid off her tin plate onto the floor.

     "You can do the cooking tomorrow, Ron, you can find the ingredients and try and 
charm them into something worth eating, and I'll sit here and pull faces and moan and you 
can see you?"

     "Shut up!," said Harry, leaping to his feet and holding up both hands. "Shut up 

Hermione looked outraged.

"How can you side with him, he hardly ever does the cook?"

"Hermione, be quiet, I can hear someone!"

     He was listening hard, his hands still raised, warning them not to talk. 
Then, over the rush and gush of the dark river beside them, he heard voices 
again. He looked around at the Sneakoscope. It was not moving.

"You cast the Muffliato charm over us, right?" he whispered to Hermione.

     "I did everything," she whispered back, "Muffliato, Muggle-Repelling and 
Disillusionment Charms, all of it. They shouldn't be able to hear of see us, whoever they are."

     Heavy scuffing and scraping noises, plus the sound of dislodged stones and 
twigs, told them that several people were clambering down the steep, wooded 
slope that descended to the narrow bank where they had pitched the tent. They 
drew their wands, waiting. The enchantments they had cast around themselves 
ought to be sufficient, in the near total darkness, to shield them from the 
notice of Muggles and normal witches and wizards. If these were Death Eaters, 
then perhaps their defenses were about to be tested by Dark Magic for the first 

     The voices became louder but no more intelligible as the group of men 
reached the bank. Harry estimated that their owners were fewer than twenty feet 
away, but the cascading river made it impossible to tell for sure. Hermione 
snatched up the beaded bag and started to rummage; after a moment she drew out 
three Extendible Ears and threw one each to Harry and Ron, who hastily inserted 
the ends of the flesh-colored strings into their ears and fed the other ends 
out of the tent entrance.

Within seconds Harry heard a weary male voice.

     "There ought to be a few salmon in here, or d'you reckon it's too early in the 
season? Accio Salmon!"

     There were several distinct splashes and then the slapping sounds offish 
against flesh. Somebody grunted appreciatively. Harry pressed the Extendable 
ear deeper into his

own: Over the murmur of the river he could make out more voices, but they were 
not speaking English or any human language he had ever heard. It was a rough 
and unmelodious tongue, a string of rattling, guttural noises, and there seemed 
to be two speakers, one with a slightly lower, slower voice than the other.

     A fire danced into life on the other side of the canvas, large shadows 
passed between tent and flames. The delicious smell of baking salmon wafted 
tantalizingly in their direction. Then came the clinking of cutlery on plates, 
and the first man spoke again.

"Here, Griphook, Gornuk."

Goblins! Hermione mouthed at Harry, who nodded.

"Thank you," said the goblins together in English.

     "So, you three have been on the run how long?" asked a new, mellow, and 
pleasant voice; it was vaguely familiar to Harry, who pictured a round-bellied, 
cheerful-faced man.

     "Six weeks . . . Seven ... I forget," said the tired man. "Met up with Griphook in the 
first couple of days and joined forces with Gornuk not long after. Nice to have a but of company." There 
was a pause, while knives scraped plates and tin mugs were picked up and replaced on the ground. "What 
made you leave, Ted?" continued the man.

     "Knew they were coming for me," replied mellow-voiced Ted, and Harry suddenly knew 
who he was: Tonks's father. "Heard Death Eaters were in the area last week and decided I'd 
better run for it. Refused to register as a Muggle-born on principle, see, so I knew it was a 
matter of time, knew I'd have to leave in the end. My wife should be okay, she's pure-blood. And 
then I net Dean here, what, a few days ago, son?"

     "Yeah," said another voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione stared at each 
other, silent but besides themselves with excitement, sure they recognized the voice of 
Dean Thomas, their fellow Gryffindor.

"Muggle-born, eh?" asked the first man.

     "Not sure ," said Dean. "My dad left my mum when I was a kid. I've got no proof 
he was a wizard, though."

     There was silence for a while, except for the sounds of munching; then Ted 
spoke again.

     "I've got to say, Dirk, I'm surprised to run into you. Pleased, but surprised. 
Word was that you'd been caught."

     "I was," said Dirk. "I was halfway to Azkaban when I made a break for it. 
Stunned Dawlish, and nicked his broom. It was easier than you'd think; I don't reckon he's quite 
right at the moment .Might be Confunded. If so, I'd like to shake the hand of the witch or wizard 
who did it, probably saved my life."

     There was another pause in which the fire crackled and the river rushed on. The Ted 
said, "And where do you two fit in? I, er, had the impression the goblins were for 
You-Know-Who, on the whole."

     "You had a false impression," said the higher-voiced of the goblins. "We take 
no sides. This is a wizards' war."

"How come you're in hiding, then?"

     "I deemed in prudent," said the deeper-voiced goblin. "Having refused what I 
considered an impertinent request, I could see that my person safety was in jeopardy."

"What did they ask you to do?" asked Ted.

     "Duties ill-befitting the dignity of my race," replied the goblin, his voice rougher 
and less human as he said it. "I am not a house-elf"

"What about you, Griphook?"

     "Similar reasons," said the higher voiced goblin. "Gringotts is no longer under 
the sole control of my race. I recognize no Wizarding master."

He added something under his breath in Gobbledegook, and Gornuk laughed.

"What's the joke?" asked Dean.

"He said," replied Dirk, "that there are things wizards don't recognize, 

There was a short pause.

"I don't get it," said Dean.

"I had my small revenge before I left,," said Griphook in English.

     "Good man?goblin, I should say," amended Ted hastily. "Didn't manage to lock a 
Death Eater up in one of the old high-security vaults, I suppose?"

     "If I had, the sword would not have helped him break out," replied 
Griphook. Gornuk laughed again and even Dirk gave a dry chuckle.

"Dean and I are still missing something here," said Ted.

     "So is Severus Snape, though he does not know it," said Griphook, and the 
two goblins roared with malicious laughter. Inside the tent Harry's breathing was shallow 
with excitement: He and Hermione stared at each other, listening as hard as they could.

     "Didn't you hear about that, Ted?" asked Dirk. "About the kids who tried to 
steal Gryffindor's sword out of Snape's office at Hogwarts?"

     An electric current seemed to course through Harry, jangling his every 
nerve as he stood rooted to the spot.

"Never heard a word," said Ted, "Not in the Prophet, was it?"

     "Hardly," chortled Dirk. "Griphook here told me, he heard about it from Bill 
Weasley who works for the bank. One of the kids who tried to take the sword was Bill's younger 

     Harry glanced toward Hermione and Ron, both of whom were clutching the 
Extendable Ears as tightly as lifelines.

     "She and a couple of friends got into Snape's office and smashed open the 
glass case where he was apparently keeping the sword. Snape caught them as they were 
trying to smuggle it down the staircase.

     "Ah, God bless 'em," said Ted. "What did they think, that they'd be able 
to use the sword on You-Know-Who? Or on Snape himself?

     "Well, whatever they thought they were going to do with it, Snape decided the sword 
wasn't safe where it was," said Dirk. "Couple of days later, once he'd got the say-so 
from You-Know-Who, I imagine, he sent it down to London to be kept in Gringotts instead."

The goblins started to laugh again.

"I'm still not seeing the joke," said Ted.

"It's a fake," rasped Griphook.

"The sword of Gryffindor!"

     "Oh yes. It is a copy?en excellent copy, it is true?but it was Wizard-made. The 
original was forged centuries ago by goblins and had certain properties only goblin-made 
armor possesses. Wherever the genuine sword of Gryffindor is, it is not in a vault at 
Gringotts bank."

"I see," said Ted. "And I take it you didn't bother telling the Death Eaters 

     "I saw no reason to trouble them with the information," said Griphook 
smugly, and now Ted and Dean joined in Gornuk and Dirk's laughter.

     Inside the tent, Harry closed his eyes, willing someone to ask the 
question he needed answered, and after a minute that seemed ten, Dean obliged: 
he was (Harry remembered with a jolt) an ex-boyfriend of Ginny's too.

"What happened to Ginny and all the others? The ones who tried to steal it?"

"Oh, they were punished, and cruelly," said Griphook indifferently.

     "They're okay, though?" asked Ted quickly, "I mean, the Weasleys don't need any 
more of their kids injured, do they?"

"They suffered no serious injury, as far as I am aware," said Griphook.

     "Lucky for them," said Ted. "With Snape's track record I suppose we should just 
be glad they're still alive."

     "You believe that story, then, do you, Ted?" asked Dirk." You believe 
Snape killed Dumbledore?

     "Course I do," said Ted. "You're not going to sit there and tell me you think 
Potter had anything to do with it?"

"Hard to know what to believe these days," muttered Dirk.

     "I know Harry Potter," said Dean. "And I reckon he's the real thing?the Chosen 
One, or whatever you want to call it."

     "Yeah, there's a lot would like to believe he's that, son," said Dirk, "me 
included. But where is he? Run for it, by the looks of things. You'd think if he knew anything we 
don't, or had anything special going for him, he'd be out there now fighting, rallying resistance, 
instead of hiding. And you know, the Prophet made a pretty good case against him?"

     "The Prophet?" scoffed Ted. "You deserve to be lied to if you're still reading 
that much, Dirk. You want the facts, try the Quibbler."

     There was a sudden explosion of choking and retching, plus a good deal of thumping, 
by the sound of it. Dirk had swallowed a fish bone. At last he sputtered, "The 
Quibbler? That lunatic rag of Xeno Lovegood's?"

     "It's not so lunatic these days," said Ted. "You want to give it a look, Xeno 
is printing all the stuff the Prophet's ignoring, not a single mention of Crumple-Horned Snorkacks 
in the last issue. How long they'll let him get with it, mind, I don't know. But Xeno says, front 
page of every issue, that any wizard who's against You-Know-Who ought to make helping Harry Potter 
their number-one priority."

"Hard to help a boy who's vanished off the face of the earth," said Dirk.

     "Listen, the fact that they haven't caught him yet's one hell of an achievement," 
said Ted. "I'd take tips from him gladly; it's what we're trying to do, stay free, isn't 

     "Yeah, well, you've got a point there," said Dirk heavily. "With the whole of 
the Ministry and all their informers looking for him, I'd have expected him to be caught by now. 
Mind, who's to say they haven't already caught and killed him without publicizing it?"

"Ah, don't say that, Dirk," murmured Ted.

     There was a long pause filled with more clattering of knives and forks. 
When they spoke again it was to discuss whether they ought to sleep on the back 
or retreat back up

the wooded slope. Deciding the trees would give better cover, they extinguished 
their fire, then clambered back up the incline, their voices fading away.

     Harry, Ron, and Hermione reeled in the Extendable Ears. Harry, who had found the 
need to remain silent increasingly difficult the longer they eavesdropped, now found 
himself unable to say more then, "Ginny?the sword?"

"I know!" said Hermione.

     She lunged for the tiny beaded bag, this time sinking her arm in it right 
up to the armpit.

     "Here . . . we . . . are . . ." she said between gritted teeth, and she 
pulled at something that was evidently in the depths of the bag. Slowly the edge of an 
ornate picture frame came into sight. Harry hurried to help her. As they lifted the empty 
portrait of Phineas Nigellus free of Hermione's bag, she kept her wand pointing at it, 
ready to cast a spell at any moment.

     "If somebody swapped the real sword for the face while it was in Dumbledore's 
office," she panted, as they propped the painting against the side of the tent, "Phineas 
Nigellus would have seen it happen, he hangs right beside the case!"

     "Unless he was asleep," said Harry, but he still held his breath as 
Hermione knelt down in front of the empty canvas, her wand directed at its center, 
cleared her throat, then said:

"Er?Phineas? Phineas Nigellus?"

Nothing happened.

     "Phineas Nigellus?" said Hermione again. "Professor Black? Please could we talk 
to you? Please?"

     "'Please' always helps," said a cold, snide voice, and Phineas Nigellus 
slid into his portrait. At one, Hermione cried:


     A black blindfold appeared over Phineas Nigellus's clever, dark eyes, 
causing him to bump into the frame and shriek with pain.

"What?how dare?what are you??"

     "I'm very sorry, Professor Black," said Hermione, "but it's a necessary 

     "remove this foul addition at once! Remove it, I say! You are ruining a great 
work of art! Where am I? What is going on?"

     "Never mind where we are," said Harry, and Phineas Nigellus froze, 
abandoning his attempts to peel off the painted blindfold.

"Can that possible be the voice of the elusive Mr. Potter?"

     "Maybe," said Harry, knowing that this would keep Phineas Nigellus's interest. 
"We've got a couple of questions to ask you?about the sword of Gryffindor."

     "Ah," said Phineas Nigellus, now turning his head this way and that in an effort to 
catch sight of Harry, "yes. That silly girl acted most unwisely there?"

     "Shut up about my sister," said Ron roughly, Phineas Nigellus raised 
supercilious eyebrows.

     "Who else is here?" he asked, turning his head from side to side. "Your tone 
displeases me! The girl and her friends were foolhardily in the extreme. Thieving from the 

"They weren't thieving," said Harry. "That sword isn't Snape's."

     "It belongs to Professor Snape's school," said Phineas Nigellus. "Exactly what 
claim did the Weasley girl have upon it? She deserved her punishment, as did the idiot Longbottom 
and the Lovegood oddity!"

"Neville is not an idiot and Luna is not an oddity!" said Hermione.

     "Where am I?" repeated Phineas Nigellus, starting to wrestle with the blindfold 
again. "Where have you brought me? Why have you removed me from the house of my 

     "never mind that! How did Snape punish Ginny, Neville, and Luna?" asked 
Harry urgently.

     "Professor Snape sent them into the Forbidden Forest, to do some work for the 
oaf, Hagrid."

"Hagrid's not an oaf!" said Hermione shrilly.

     "And Snape might've though that was a punishment," said Harry, "buy Ginny, 
Neville, and Luna probably had a good laugh with Hagrid. The Forbidden Forest. . . they've faced 
plenty worse than the Forbidden Forest, big deal!"

     He felt relieved; he had been imagining horrors, the Cruciatus Curse at 
the very least.

     "What we really wanted to know, Professor Black, is whether anyone else has, 
um, taken out the sword at all? Maybe it's been taken away for cleaning?or 

Phineas Nigellus paused again in his struggles to free his eyes and sniggered.

     "Muggle-born," he said, "Goblin-made armor does not require cleaning, simple 
girl. Goblin's silver repels mundane dirt, imbibing only that which strengthens it."

"Don't call Hermione simple," said Harry.

     "I grow weary of contradiction," said Phineas Nigellus. "perhaps it is time for 
me to return to the headmaster's office.?"

     Still blindfolded, he began groping the side of his frame, trying to feel 
his way out of his picture and back into the one at Hogwarts. Harry had a 
sudden inspiration.

"Dumbledore! Can't you bring us Dumbledore?"

"I beg your pardon?" asked Phineas Nigellus.

     "Professor Dumbledore's portrait?couldn't you bring him along, here, into 

Phineas Nigellus turned his face in the direction of Harry's voice.

     "Evidently it is not only Muggle-borns who are ignorant, Potter. The portraits 
of Hogwarts may commune with each other, but they cannot travel outside of the castle 
except to visit a painting of themselves elsewhere. Dumbledore cannot come here with me, 
and after the treatment I have received at your hands, I can assure you that I will not 
be making a return visit!"

     Slightly crestfallen, Harry watched Phineas redouble his attempts to leave 
his frame.

     "Professor Black," said Hermione, "couldn't you just tell us, please, when was 
the last time the sword was taken out of its case? Before Ginny took it out, I mean?"

Phineas snorted impatiently.

     "I believe that the last time I saw the sword of Gryffindor leave its case was 
when Professor Dumbledore used it to break open a ring."

     Hermione whipped around to look at Harry. Neither of them dared say more 
in front of Phineas Nigellus, who had at least managed to locate the exit.

     "Well, good night to you," he said a little waspishly, and he began to 
move out of sight again. Only the edge of his hat brim remained in view when Harry gave a 
sudden shout.

"Wait! Have you told Snape you saw this?"

Phineas Nigellus stuck his blindfolded head back into the picture.

     "Professor Snape has more important things on his mind that the many 
eccentricities of Albus Dumbledore. Good-bye, Potter!"

     And with that, he vanished completely, leaving behind him nothing but his 
murky backdrop.

"Harry!" Hermione cried.

     "I know!" Harry shouted. Unable to contain himself, he punched the air; it 
was more than he had dared to hope for. He strode up and down the tent, feeling that he 
could have run a mile; he did not even feel hungry anymore. Hermione was squashing 
Phineas Nigellus's back into the beaded bag; when she had fastened the clasp she threw 
the bag aside and raised a shining face to Harry.

     "The sword can destroy Horcruxes! Goblin-made blades imbibe only that which 
strengthens them?Harry, that sword's impregnated with basilisk venom!"

     "And Dumbledore didn't five it to me because he still needed it, he wanted to 
use it on the locket?"

     "?and he must have realized they wouldn't let you have it if he put it in his 

"?so he made a copy?"

"?and put a fake in the glass case?"

"?and he left the real one?where?"

     They gazed at east other Harry felt that the answer was dangling invisibly in 
the air above them, tantalizingly close. Why hadn't Dumbledore told him? Or had he, 
in fact, told Harry, but Harry had not realized it at the time?"

"Think!" whispered Hermione. "Think! Where would he have left it?"

"Not at Hogwarts," said Harry, resuming his pacing.

"Somewhere in Hogsmeade?" suggested Hermione.

"The Shrieking Shack?" said Harry. "Nobody ever goes in there."

"But Snape knows how to get in, wouldn't that be a bit risky?"

"Dumbledore trusted Snape," Harry reminded her.

"Not enough to tell him that he had swapped the swords," said Hermione.

     "Yeah, you're right!" said Harry, and he felt even more cheered at the thought that 
Dumbledore had had some reservations, however faint, about Snape's trustworthiness. "So, would 
he have hidden the sword well away from Hogsmeade, then? What d'you reckon, Ron? Ron?"

     Harry looked around. For one bewildered moment he thought that Ron had 
left the tent, then realized that Ron was lying in the shadow of a bunk, 
looking stony.

"Oh, remembered me, have you?" he said.


Ron snorted as he stared up at the underside of the upper bunk.

"You two carry on. Don't let me spoil your fun."

     Perplexed, Harry looked to Hermione for help, but she shook her head, 
apparently as nonplussed as he was.

"What's the problem?" asked Harry.

     "Problem? There's no problem," said Ron, still refusing to look at Harry. "Not 
according to you, anyways."

There were several plunks on the canvas over their heads. It had started to 

"Well, you've obviously got a problem," said Harry. "Spit it out, will you?"

Ron swung his long legs off the bed and sat up. He looked mean, unlike himself.

     "All right, I'll spit it out. Don't expect me to skip up and down the tent 
because there's some other damn thing we've got to find. Just add it to the list of stuff 
you don't know."

"I don't know?" repeated Harry. "I don't know?"

     Plunk, plunk, plunk. The rain was falling harder and heavier; it pattered 
on the leaf-strewn bank all around them and into the river chattering through 
the dark. Dread doused Harry's jubilation; Ron was saying exactly what he had 
suspected and feared him to be thinking.

     "It's not like I'm not having the time of my life here," said Ron, "you know, 
with my arm mangled and nothing to eat and freezing my backside off every night. I just hoped, you 
know, after we'd been running round a few weeks, we'd have achieved something."

     "Ron," Hermione said, but in such a quiet voice that Ron could pretend not 
to have heard it over the loud tattoo the rain was beating on the tent.

"I thought you knew what you'd signed up for," said Harry.

"Yeah, I thought I did too."

     "So what part of it isn't living up to your expectations?" asked Harry. Anger was 
coming to his defense now. "Did you think we'd be staying in five-star hotels? Finding a 
Horcrux every other day? Did you think you'd be back to Mummy by Christmas?"

     "We thought you knew what you were doing!" shouted Ron, standing up, and his words 
Harry like scalding knives. "We thought Dumbledore had told you what to do, we thought you had 
a real plan!"

     "Ron!" said Hermione, this time clearly audible over the rain thundering 
on the tent roof, but again, he ignored her.

     "Well, sorry to let you down," said Harry, his voice quite calm even though he felt 
hollow, inadequate. "I've been straight with you from the start. I told you everything 
Dumbledore told me. And in the case you haven't noticed, we've found one Horcrux?"

     "Yeah, and we're about as near getting rid of it as we are to finding the rest 
of them?nowhere effing near in other words."

     "take off the locket, Ron," Hermione said, her voice unusually high. "Please 
take it off. You wouldn't be talking like this if you hadn't been wearing it all day."

     "Yeah, he would," said Harry, who did not want excuses made for Ron. 
"D'you think I haven't noticed the two of you whispering behind my back? D'you think I 
didn't guess you were thinking this stuff?

"Harry, we weren't?"

     "Don't lie!" Ron hurled at her. "You said it too, you said you were 
disappointed, you said you'd thought he had a bit more to go on than?"

"I didn't say it like that?Harry, I didn't!" she cried.

     The rain was pounding the tent, tears were pouring down Hermione's face, 
and the excitement of a few minutes before had vanished as if it had never 
been, a short-lived

firework that had flared and died, leaving everything dark, wet, and cold. The 
sword of Gryffindor was hidden they knew not where, and their were three 
teenagers in a tent whose only achievement was not, yet, to be dead.

"So why are you still here?" Harry asked Ron.

"Search me," said Ron.

"Go home then," said Harry.

     "Yeah, maybe I will!" shouted Ron, and he took several steps toward Harry, who did 
not back away. "Didn't you hear what they said about my sister? But you don't give a rat's 
fart, do you, it's only the Forbidden Forest, Harry Fve-Faced-Worse Potter doesn't care what 
happened to her in there?well, I do, all right, giant spiders and mental stuff?"

"I was only saying?she was with the others, they were with Hagrid?"

     "Yeah, I get it, you don't care! And what about the rest of my family, 'the

Weasleys don't need another kid injured,' did you hear that?"      "Yeah, I?"

"Not bothered what it meant, though?"

     "Ron!" said Hermione, forcing her way between them. "I don't think it means 
anything new has happened, anything we don't know about; think, Ron, Bill's already scared, plenty 
of people must have seen that George has lost an ear by now, and you're supposed to be on your 
deathbed with spattergroit, Fm sure that's all he meant?"

     "Oh, you're sure, are you? Right then, well, I won't bother myself about them. 
It's all right for you, isn't it, with your parents safely out of the way?"

"My parents are dead!" Harry bellowed.

"And mine could be going the same way!" yelled Ron.

     "Then GO!" roared Harry. "Go back to them, pretend you're got over your 
spattergroit and Mummy'll be able to feed you up and?"

     Ron made a sudden movement: Harry reacted, but before either wand was 
clear of its owner's pocket, Hermione had raised her own.

     "Prestego!" she cried, and an invisible shield expanded between her and 
Harry on the one side and Ron on the other; all of them were forced backward a few steps 
by the strength of the spell, and Harry and Ron glared from either side of the 
transparent barrier as though they were seeing each other clearly for the first time. 
Harry felt a corrosive hatred toward Ron: Something had broken between them.

"Leave the Horcrux," Harry said.

     Ron wrenched the chain from over his head and cast the locket into a 
nearby chair. He turned to Hermione.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you staying, or what?"

     "I. . ." She looked anguished. "Yes?yes, Fm staying. Ron, we said we'd go with 
Harry, we said we'd help?"

"I get it. You choose him."

"Ron, no?please?come back, come back!"

     She was impeded by her own Shield Charm; by the time she had removed it he 
had already stormed into the night. Harry stood quite still and silent, 
listening to her sobbing and calling Ron's name amongst the trees.

After a few minutes she returned, her sopping hair plastered to her face.

"He's g-g-gone! Disapparated!"

She threw herself into a chair, curled up, and started to cry.

     Harry felt dazed. He stooped, picked up the Horcrux, and placed it around 
his own neck. He dragged blankets off Ron's bunk and threw them over Hermione. 
Then he climbed onto his own bed and stared up at the dark canvas roof, 
listening to the pounding of the rain.

Chapter Sixteen Godric's Hollow

     When Harry woke the following day it was several seconds before he remembered what 
had happened. Then he hoped childishly, that it had been a dream, that Ron was still 
there and had never left. Yet by turning his head on his pillow he could see Ron's 
deserted bunk. It was like a dead body in the way it seems to draw his eyes. Harry jumped 
down from his own bed, keeping his eyes averted from Ron's. Hermione, who was already 
busy in the kitchen, did not wish Harry good morning, but turned her face away quickly as 
he went by. He's gone, Harry told himself. He's gone. He had to keep thinking it as he 
washed and dressed as though repetition would dull the shock of it. He's gone and he's 
not coming back. And that was the simple truth of it, Harry knew, because their 
protective enchantments meant that it would be impossible, once they vacated this spot, 
for Ron to find them again. He and Hermione ate breakfast in silence. Hermione's eyes 
were puffy and red; she looked as if she had not slept. They packed up their things, 
Hermione dawdling. Harry knew why she wanted to spin out their time on the riverbank; 
several times he saw her look up eagerly, and he was sure she had deluded herself into 
thinking that she heard footsteps through the heavy rain, but no red-haired figure 
appeared between the trees. Every time Harry imitated her, looked around ( for he could 
not help hoping a little, himself) and saw nothing but rain-swept woods, another little 
parcel of fury exploded inside him. He could hear Ron saying, "We thought you knew 
what you were doing!", and he resumed packing with a hard knot in the pit of his 

 The muddy river beside them was rising rapidly and would soon spill over onto 
their bank. They had lingered a good hour after they would usually have 
departed their campsite. Finally having entirely repacked the beaded bag three 
times, Hermione seemed unable to find any more reasons to delay: She and Harry 
gasped hands and Disapparated, reappearing on a windswept heather-covered 
hillside. The instant they arrived, Hermione dropped Harry's hand and walked 
away from him, finally sitting down on a large rock, her face on her knees, 
shaking with what he knew were sobs. He watched her, supposing that he ought to 
go and comfort her, but something kept him rooted to the spot. Everything 
inside him felt cold and tight: Again he saw the contemptuous expression on 
Ron's face. Harry strode off through the heather, walking in a large circle 
with the distraught Hermione at its center, casting the spell she usually 
performed to ensure their protection.

They did not discuss Ron at all over the next few days. Harry was determined 
never to mention his name again and Hermione seemed to know that it was no use 
forcing the issue, although sometimes at night when she thought he was 
sleeping, he would hear her

crying. Meanwhile Harry had started bringing out the Marauder's map and 
examining it by wandlight. He was waiting for the moment when Ron's labeled dot 
would reappear in the corridors of Hogwarts, proving that he had returned to 
the comfortable castle, protected by his status of pureblood. However, Ron did 
not appear on the map and after a while Harry found himself taking it out 
simply to stare at Ginny's name in the girl's dormitory, wondering whether the 
intensity with which he gazed at it might break into her sleep, that she would 
somehow know he was thinking about her, hoping that she was all right.

By day, hey devoted themselves to trying to determine the possible locations of 
Gryffindor's sword, but the more they talked about the places in which 
Dumbledore might have hidden it, the more desperate and far-fetched their 
speculation became. Cudgel his brains though he might, Harry could not remember 
Dumbledore ever mentioning a place in which he might hide something. There were 
moments when he did not know whether he was angrier with Ron or with 
Dumbledore. We thought you knew what you were doing ...We thought Dumbledore 
had told you what to do ... We thought you had a real plan!

     He could not hide it from himself: Ron had been right. Dumbledore had left 
him with virtually nothing. They had discovered one Horcrux, but they had no 
means of destroying it: The others were as unattainable as they had ever been. 
Hopelessness threatened to engulf him. He was staggered now to think of his own 
presumption in accepting his friends' offers to accompany him on this 
meandering, pointless journey, he knew nothing, he had no ideas, and he was 
constantly, painfully on the alert for any indications that Hermione too was 
about to tell him that she had had enough. That she was leaving.

They were spending many evenings in near silence and Hermione took to bringing 
out Phineas Nigellus's portrait and propping it up in a chair, as though he 
might fill part of the gaping hole left by Ron's departure. Despite his 
previous assertion that he would never visit them again, Phineas Nigellus did 
not seem able to resist the chance to find out more about what Harry was up to 
and consented to reappear, blindfolded, every few days of so. Harry was even 
glad to see him, because he was company, albeit of a snide and taunting kind. 
They relished any news about what was happening at Hogwarts, though Phineas 
Nigellus was not an ideal informer. He venerated Snape, the first Slytherin 
headmaster since he himself had controlled the school, and they had to be 
careful not to criticize or ask impertinent questions about Snape, or Phineas 
Nigellus would instantly leave his painting.

     However, he did let drop certain snippets. Snape seemed to be facing a 
constant, low level of mutiny from a hard core of students. Ginny had been 
banned from going into Hogsmeade. Snape had reinstated Umbridge's old decree 
forbidding gatherings of three or more students or any unofficial student 
societies. From all of these things, Harry deduced that Ginny, and probably 
Neville and Luna along with her, had been doing their best to continue 
Dumbledore's Army. This scant news made Harry want to see Ginny so badly it 
felt like a stomachache; but it also made him think of Ron again, and of 
Dumbledore, and of Hogwarts itself, which he missed nearly as much as his 
ex-girlfriend. Indeed, as Phineas Niggellus talked about Snape's crackdown, 
Harry experienced a split second of madness when he imagined simply going back 
to school to join the destabilization of Snape's regime: Being fed and having a 
soft bad, and other people

being in charge, seemed the most wonderful prospect in the world at this 
moment. But then he remembered that he was Undesirable Number One, that there 
was a ten-thousand Galleon price on his head, and that to walk into Hogwarts 
these days was just as dangerous as walking into the Ministry of Magic. Indeed, 
Phineas Nigellus inadvertently emphasized this fact my slipping in leading 
questions about Harry and Hermione's whereabouts. Hermione shoved him back 
inside the beaded bag every time he did this, and Phineas Nigellus invariably 
refused to reappear for several days after these unceremonious good-byes.

     The weather grew colder and colder. They did not dare remain in any area 
too long, so rather than staying in the south of England, where a hard ground 
frost was the worst of their worries, they continued to meander up and down the 
country, braving a mountainside, where sleet pounded the tent; a wide, flat 
marsh, where the tent was flooded with chill water; and a tiny island in the 
middle of a Scottish loch, where snow half buried the tent in the night. They 
had already spotted Christmas Trees twinkling from several sitting room windows 
before there came an evening when Harry resolved to suggest again, what seemed 
to him the only unexplored avenue left to them. They had just eaten an 
unusually good meal: Hermione had been to a supermarket under the Invisibility 
Cloak (scrupulously dropping the money into an open till as she left), and 
Harry thought that she might be more persuadable than usual on a stomach full 
of spaghetti Bolognese and tinned pears.

     He had also had the foresight to suggest that they take a few hours' break 
from wearing the Horcrux, which was hanging over the end of the bunk beside him.


     "Hmm?" She was curled up in one of the sagging armchairs with The Tales of 
Beedle the Bard. He could not imagine how much more she could get out of the book, which 
was not, after all, very long, but evidently she was still deciphering something in it, 
because Spellman 's Syllabary lay open on the arm of the chair.

     Harry cleared his throat. He felt exactly as he had done on the occasion, 
several years previously, when he had asked Professor McGonagall whether he 
could go into Hogsmeade, despite the fact that he had not persuaded the 
Dursleys to sign his permission slip.

"Hermione, I've been thinking, and -"

"Harry, could you help me with something?"

     Apparently she had not been listening to him. She leaned forward and held 
out The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

     "Look at that symbol," she said, pointing to the top of a page. Above what 
Harry assumed was the title of the story (being unable to read runes, he could not be 
sure), there was a picture of what looked like a triangular eye, its pupil crossed with a 
vertical line.

"I never took Ancient Runes, Hermione."

     "I know that; but it isn't a rune and it's not in the syllabary, either. All 
along I thought it was a picture of an eye, but I don't think it is! It's been inked in, 
look, somebody's drawn it there, it isn't really part of the book. Think, have you ever 
seen it before?"

     "No . . . No, wait a moment." Harry looked closer. "Isn't it the same symbol 
Luna's dad was wearing round his neck?"

"Well, that's what I thought too!"

"Then it's Grindelwald's mark."

She stared at him, openmouthed.


"Krum told me . . ."

     He recounted the story that Viktor Krum had told him at the wedding. 
Hermione looked astonished.

"Grindelwald's mark?"

     She looked from Harry to the weird symbol and back again. "I've never heard 
that Grindelwald had a mark. There's no mention of it in anything I've ever read about 

    "Well, like I say, Krum reckoned that symbol was carved on a wall at Durmstrang, 
and Grindelwald put it there."

She fell back into the old armchair, frowning.

     "That's very odd. If it's a symbol of Dark Magic, what's it doing in a book of 
children's stories?"

     "Yeah, it is weird," said Harry. "And you'd think Scrimgeour would have 
recognized it. He was Minister, he ought to have been expert on Dark stuff."

     "I know. . . . Perhaps he thought it was an eye, just like I did. All the other 
stories have little pictures over the titles."

She did not speak, but continued to pore over the strange mark. Harry tried 



"I've been thinking. I - I want to go to Godric's Hollow."

     She looked up at him, but her eyes were unfocused, and he was sure she was 
still thinking about the mysterious mark on the book.

"Yes," she said. "Yes, I've been wondering that too. I really think we'll have 

"Did you hear me right?" he asked.

     "Of course I did. You want to go to Godric's Hollow. I agree. I think we 
should. I mean, I can't think of anywhere else it could be either. It'll be dangerous, 
but the more I think about it, the more likely it seems it's there."

"Er - what's there?" asked Harry.

At that, she looked just as bewildered as he felt.

     "Well, the sword, Harry! Dumbledore must have known you'd want to go back 
there, and I mean, Godric's Hollow is Godric Gryffindor's birthplace -"

"Really? Gryffindor came from Godric's Hollow?"

"Harry, did you ever even open A History of Magic?"

     "Erm," he said, smiling for what felt like the first time in months: The muscles in 
his face felt oddly stiff. "I might've opened it, you know, when I bought it. . . just the 
once. . . ."

     "Well, as the village is named after him I'd have thought you might have made the 
connection," said Hermione. She sounded much more like her old self than she had done of late; 
Harry half expected her to announce that she was off to the library. "There's a bit about the 
village in A History of Magic, wait. . ."

     She opened the beaded bag and rummaged for a while, finally extracting her 
copy of their old school textbook, A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot, 
which she thumbed through until finding the page she wanted.

     " 'Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, 
wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their 
own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted 
several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection. The 
villages of Tinworsh in Cornwall, Upper Flagley in Yorkshire, and Ottery St. 
Catchpole on the south coast of England were notable homes to knots of Wizarding 
families who lived alongside tolerant and sometimes Confunded Muggles. Most 
celebrated of these half-magical dwelling places is, perhaps, Godric's Hollow, the 
West Country village where the great wizard Godric Gryffindor was born, and where 
Bowman Wright, Wizarding smith, forged the first Golden Snitch. The graveyard is 
full of the names of ancient magical families, and this accounts, no doubt, for the 
stories ofhauntings that have dogged the little church beside it for many centuries.'

     "You and your parents aren't mentioned." Hermione said, closing the book, 
"because Professor Bagshot doesn't cover anything later than the end of the nineteenth 
century. But you see? Godric's Hollow, Godric Gryffindor, Gryffindor's sword; don't you think 
Dumbledore would have expected you to make the connection?"

"Oh yeah . . ."

     Harry did not want to admit that he had not been thinking about the sword 
at all when he suggested they go to Godric's Hollow. For him, the lore of the 
village lay in his parents' graves, the house where he had narrowly escaped 
death, and in the person of Bathilda Bagshot.

"Remember what Muriel said?" he asked eventually.


     "You know," he hesitated. He did not want to say Ron's name. "Ginny's 
great-aunt. At the wedding. The one who said you had skinny ankles."

     "Oh," said Hermione. It was a sticky moment: Harry knew that she had 
sensed Ron's name in the offing. He rushed on:

"She said Bathilda Bagshot still lived in Godric's Hollow."

     "Bathilda Bagshot," murmured Hermione, running her index finger over Bathilda's 
embossed name on the front cover of A History of Magic. "Well, I suppose -"

     She gasped so dramatically that Harry's insides turned over; he drew his 
wand, looking around at the entrance, half expecting to see a hand forcing its 
way through the entrance flap, but there was nothing there.

     "What?" he said, half angry, half relieved. "What did you do that for? I 
thought you'd seen a Death Eater unzipping the tent, at least -"

     "Harry, what if Bathilda's got the sword? What if Dumbledore entrusted it to 

     Harry considered this possibility. Bathilda would be an extremely old woman by now, 
and according to Muriel, she was "gaga." Was it likely that Dumbledore would 
have hidden the sword of Gryffindor with her? If so, Harry felt that Dumbledore had left 
a great deal to chance: Dumbledore had never revealed that he had replaced the sword with 
a fake, nor had he so much as mentioned a friendship with Bathilda. Now, however, was not 
the moment to cast doubt on Hermione's theory, not when she was so surprisingly willing 
to fall in with Harry's dearest wish.

"Yeah, he might have done! So, are we going to go to Godric's Hollow?"

     "Yes, but we'll have to think it through carefully, Harry." She was 
sitting up now,

and Harry could tell that the prospect of having a plan again had lifted her 
mood as much

as his. "We'll need to practice Disapparating together under the Invisibility 
Cloak for a

start, and perhaps Disillusionment Charms would be sensible too, unless you 
think we

should go the whole hog and use Polyjuice Potion? In that case we'll need to 
collect hair

from somebody. I actually think we'd better do that, Harry, the thicker our 
disguises the

better  "

     Harry let her talk, nodding and agreeing whenever there was a pause, but 
his mind had left the conversation. For the first time since he had discovered 
that the sword in Gringotts was a fake, he felt excited.

     He was about to go home, about to return to the place where he had had a 
family. It was in Godric's Hollow that, but for Voldemort, he would have grown 
up and spent every school holiday. He could have invited friends to his house. 
... He might even have had brothers and sisters. ... It would have been his 
mother who had made his seventeenth birthday cake. The life he had lost had 
hardly ever seemed so real to him as at this moment, when he knew he was about 
to see the place where it had been taken from him. After Hermione had gone to 
bed that night, Harry quietly extracted his rucksack from Hermione's beaded 
bag, and from inside it, the photograph album Hagrid had given him so long ago. 
For the first time in months, he perused the old pictures of his parents, 
smiling and waving up at him from the images, which were all he had left of 
them now.

     Harry would gladly have set out for Godric's Hollow the following day, but 
Hermione had other ideas. Convinced as she was that Voldemort would expect 
Harry to return to the scene of his parents' deaths, she was determined that 
they would set off only after they had ensured that they had the best disguises 
possible. It was therefore a full week later - once they had surreptitiously 
obtained hairs from innocent Muggles who were Christmas shopping, and had 
practiced Apparating and Disapparating while underneath the Invisibility Cloak 
together - that Hermione agreed to make the journey.

     They were to Apparate to the village under cover of darkness, so it was 
late afternoon when they finally swallowed Polyjuice Potion, Harry transforming 
into a balding, middle-aged Muggle man, Hermione into his small and rather 
mousy wife. The beaded bag containing all of their possessions (apart from the 
Horcrux, which Harry was wearing around his neck) was tucked into an inside 
pocket of Hermione's buttoned-up coat. Harry lowered the Invisibility Cloak 
over them, then they turned into the suffocating darkness once again.

     Heart beating in his throat, Harry opened his eyes. They were standing 
hand in hand in a snowy lane under a dark blue sky, in which the night's first 
stars were already glimmering feebly. Cottages stood on either side of the 
narrow road, Christmas decorations twinkling in their windows. A short way 
ahead of them, a glow of golden streetlights indicated the center of the 

     "All this snow!" Hermione whispered beneath the cloak. "Why didn't we think of 
snow? After all our precautions, we'll leave prints! We'll just have to get rid of them -you go in 
front, I'll do it -"

     Harry did not want to enter the village like a pantomime horse, trying to 
keep themselves concealed while magically covering their traces.

     "Let's take off the Cloak," said Harry, and when she looked frightened, "Oh, 
come on, we don't look like us and there's no one around."

     He stowed the Cloak under his jacket and they made their way forward 
unhampered, the icy air stinging their faces as they passed more cottages. Any 
one of them might have been the one in which James and Lily had once lived or 
where Bathilda lived now. Harry gazed at the front doors, their snow-burdened 
roofs, and their front porches, wondering whether he remembered any of them, 
knowing deep inside that it was impossible, that he had been little more than a 
year old when he had left this place forever. He was not even sure whether he 
would be able to see the cottage at all; he did not know what happened when the 
subjects of a Fidelius Charm died. Then the little lane along which they were 
walking curved to the left and the heart of the village, a small square, was 
revealed to them.

     Strung all around with colored lights, there was what looked like a war 
memorial in the middle, partly obscured by a windblown Christmas tree. There 
were several shops, a post office, a pub, and a little church whose 
stained-glass windows were glowing jewel-bright across the square.

     The snow here had become impacted: It was hard and slippery where people 
had trodden on it all day. Villagers were crisscrossing in front of them, their 
figures briefly illuminated by streetlamps. They heard a snatch of laughter and 
pop music as the pub door opened and closed; then they heard a carol start up 
inside the little church.

"Harry, I think it's Christmas Eve!" said Hermione.

"Is it?"

He had lost track of the date; they had not seen a newspaper for weeks.

     "I'm sure it is," said Hermione, her eyes upon the church. "They . . . they'll 
be in there, won't they? Your mum and dad? I can see the graveyard behind it."

     Harry felt a thrill of something that was beyond excitement, more like 
fear. Now that he was so near, he wondered whether he wanted to see after all. 
Perhaps Hermione knew how he was feeling, because she reached for his hand and 
took the lead for the first time, pulling him forward. Halfway across the 
square, however, she stopped dead.

"Harry, look!"

     She was pointing at the war memorial. As they had passed it, it had 
transformed. Instead of an obelisk covered in names, there was a statue of 
three people: a man with untidy hair and glasses, a woman with long hair and a 
kind, pretty face, and a baby boy sitting in his mother's arms. Snow lay upon 
all their heads, like fluffy white caps.

     Harry drew closer, gazing up into his parents' faces. He had never 
imagined that there would be a statue. . . . How strange it was to see himself 
represented in stone, a happy baby without a scar on his forehead. . . .

     "C'mon," said Harry, when he had looked his fill, and they turned again 
toward the church. As they crossed the road, he glanced over his shoulder; the statue had 
turned back into the war memorial.

     The singing grew louder as they approached the church. It made Harry's 
throat constrict, it reminded him so forcefully of Hogwarts, of Peeves 
bellowing rude versions of carols from inside suits of armor, of the Great 
Hall's twelve Christmas trees, of Dumbledore wearing a bonnet he had won in a 
cracker, of Ron in a hand-knitted sweater. . . .

     There was a kissing gate at the entrance to the graveyard. Hermione pushed 
it open as quietly as possible and they edged through it. On either side of the 
slippery path to the church doors, the snow lay deep and untouched. They moved 
off through the snow, carving deep trenches behind them as they walked around 
the building, keeping to the shadows beneath the brilliant windows.

     Behind the church, row upon row of snowy tombstones protruded from a 
blanket of pale blue that was flecked with dazzling red, gold, and green 
wherever the reflections from the stained glass hit the snow. Keeping his hand 
closed tightly on the wand in his jacket pocket, Harry moved toward the nearest 

"Look at this, it's an Abbott, could be some long-lost relation of Hannah's!"

"Keep your voice down," Hermione begged him.

     They waded deeper and deeper into the graveyard, gouging dark tracks into 
the snow behind them, stooping to peer at the words on old headstones, every 
now and then squinting into the surrounding darkness to make absolutely sure 
that they were unaccompanied.

"Harry, here!"

     Hermione was two rows of tombstones away; he had to wade back to her, his 
heart positively banging in his chest.

"Is it-?"

"No, but look!"

     She pointed to the dark stone. Harry stooped down and saw , upon the 
frozen, lichen-spotted granite, the words Kendra Dumbledore and, a short way 
down her dates of birth and death, and Her Daughter Ariana. There was also a 

Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

     So Rita Skeeter and Muriel had got some of their facts right. The 
Dumbledore family had indeed lived here, and part of it had died here.

     Seeing the grave was worse than hearing about it. Harry could not help 
thinking that he and Dumbledore both had deep roots in this graveyard, and that 
Dumbledore ought to have told him so, yet he had never thought to share the 
connection. They could have visited the place together; for a moment Harry 
imagined coming here with Dumbledore, of what a bond that would have been, of 
how much it would have meant to him. But it seemed that to Dumbledore, the fact 
that their families lay side by side in the same graveyard had been an 
unimportant coincidence, irrelevant, perhaps, to the job he wanted Harry to do.

     Hermione was looking at Harry, and he was glad that his face was hidden in 
shadow. He read the words on the tombstone again. Where your treasure is, there 
will your heart be also. He did not understand what these words meant. Surely 
Dumbledore had chosen them, as the eldest member of the family once his mother 
had died.

"Are you sure he never mentioned - ?" Hermione began.

     "No," said Harry curtly, then, "let's keep looking," and he turned away, 
wishing he had not seen the stone: He did not want his excited trepidation tainted with resentment.

     "Here!" cried Hermione again a few moments later from out of the darkness. "Oh 
no, sorry! I thought it said Potter."

     She was rubbing at a crumbling, mossy stone, gazing down at it, a little 
frown on her face.

"Harry, come back a moment."

     He did not want to be sidetracked again, and only grudgingly made his way 
back through the snow toward her.


"Look at this!"

     The grave was extremely old, weathered so that Harry could hardly make out 
the name. Hermione showed him the symbol beneath it.

"Harry, that's the mark in the book!"

     He peered at the place she indicated: The stone was so worn that it was 
hard to make out what was engraved there, though there did seem to be a 
triangular mark beneath the nearly illegible name.

"Yeah ... it could be. . . ."

Hermione lit her wand and pointed it at the name on the headstone.

"It says Ig - Ignotus, I think. . . ."

     "I'm going to keep looking for my parents, all right?" Harry told her, a 
slight edge to his voice, and he set off again, leaving her crouched beside the old grave.

     Every now and then he recognized a surname that, like Abbott, he had met 
at Hogwarts. Sometimes there were several generations of the same Wizarding 
family represented in the graveyard: Harry could tell from the dates that it 
had either died out, or the current members had moved away from Godric's 
Hollow. Deeper and deeper amongst the graves he went, and every time he reached 
a new headstone he felt a little lurch of apprehension and anticipation.

     The darkness and the silence seemed to become, all of a sudden, much 
deeper. Harry looked around, worried, thinking of dementors, then realized that 
the carols had finished, that the chatter and flurry of churchgoers were fading 
away as they made their way back into the square. Somebody inside the church 
had just turned off the lights.

     Then Hermione's voice came out of the blackness for the third time, sharp 
and clear from a few yards away.

"Harry, they're here . . . right here."

     And he knew by her tone that it was his mother and father this time: He 
moved toward her, feeling as if something heavy were pressing on his chest, the 
same sensation he had had right after Dumbledore had died, a grief that had 
actually weighed on his heart and lungs.

     The headstone was only two rows behind Kendra and Ariana's. It was made of 
white marble, just like Dumbledore's tomb, and this made it easy to read, as it 
seemed to shine in the dark. Harry did not need to kneel or even approach very 
close to it to make out the words engraved upon it.


BORN 27 MARCH 1960      BORN 30 JANUARY 1960

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981    DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

     Harry read the words slowly, as though he would have only one chance to 
take in their meaning, and he read the last of them aloud.

     '"The last enemy that shall be defeated is death' ..." A horrible thought came to 
him, and with a kind of panic. "Isn't that a Death Eater idea? Why is that there?"

     "It doesn't mean defeating death in the way the Death Eaters mean it, Harry," said 
Hermione, her voice gentle. "It means . . . you know . . . living beyond death. Living after 

     But they were not living, thought Harry. They were gone. The empty words 
could not disguise the fact that his parents' moldering remains lay beneath 
snow and stone, indifferent, unknowing. And tears came before he could stop 
them, boiling hot then instantly freezing on his face, and what was the point 
in wiping them off or pretending? He let them fall, his lips pressed hard 
together, looking down at the thick snow hiding from his eyes the place where 
the last of Lily and James lay, bones now, surely, or dust, not knowing or 
caring that their living son stood so near, his heart still beating, alive 
because of their sacrifice and close to wishing, at this moment, that he was 
sleeping under the snow with them.

     Hermione had taken his hand again and was gripping it tightly. He could 
not look at her, but returned the pressure, now taking deep, sharp gulps of the 
night air, trying to steady himself, trying to regain control. He should have 
brought something o give them, and he had not thought of it, and every plant in 
the graveyard was leafless and frozen. But Hermione raised her wand, moved it 
in a circle through the air, and a wreath of Christmas roses blossomed before 
them. Harry caught it and laid it on his parents' grave.

     As soon as he stood up he wanted to leave: He did not think he could stand 
another moment there. He put his arm around Hermione's shoulders, and she put 
hers around his waist, and they turned in silence and walked away through the 
snow, past Dumbledore's mother and sister, back toward the dark church and the 
out-of-sight kissing gate.

Chapter Seventeen BathiIda's Secret

"Harry, stop."

"What's wrong?"

They had only just reached the grave of the unknown Abbott.

"There's someone there. Someone watching us. I can tell. There, over by the 

They stood quite still, holding on to each other, gazing at the dense black 
boundary of the graveyard. Harry could not see anything.

"Are you sure?"

"I saw something move. I could have sworn I did..."

She broke from him to free her wand arm.

"We look like Muggles," Harry pointed out.

"Muggles who've just been laying flowers on your parents' grave? Harry, I'm sure 
there's someone over there!"

Harry thought of A History of Magic; the graveyard was supposed to be haunted; 
what if ?? But then he heard a rustle and saw a little eddy of dislodged snow 
in the bush to which Hermione had pointed. Ghosts could not move snow.

"It's a cat," said Harry, after a second or two, "or a bird. If it was a Death Eater 
we'd be dead by now. But let's get out of here, and we can put the Cloak back on."

They glanced back repeatedly as they made their way out of the graveyard. Harry, who did 
not feel as sanguine as he had pretended when reassuring Hermione, was glad to reach the 
gate and the slippery pavement. They pulled the Invisibility Cloak back over themselves. 
The pub was fuller than before. Many voices inside it were now singing the carol that 
they had heard as they approached the church. For a moment, Harry considered suggesting 
they take refuge inside it, but before he could say anything Hermione murmured, 
"Let's go this way," and pulled him down the dark street leading out of the 
village in the opposite direction from which they had entered. Harry could make out the 
point where the cottages ended and the lane turned into open country again. They walked 
as quickly as they dared, past more windows sparkling with multicolored lights, the 
outlines of Christmas trees dark through the curtains.

"How are we going to find Bathilda's house?" asked Hermione, who was shivering a little 
and kept glancing back over her shoulder. "Harry? What do you think? Harry?"

She tugged at this arm, but Harry was not paying attention. He was looking 
toward the dark mass that stood at the very end of this row of houses. Next 
moment he sped up, dragging Hermione along with him, she slipped a little on 
the ice.

"Harry -"

"Look ... Look at it, Hermione ..."

"I don't ...oh!"

He could see it; the Fidelius Charm must have died with James and Lily. The 
hedge had grown wild in the sixteen years since Hagrid had taken Harry from the 
rubble that lay scattered amongst the waist-high grass. Most of the cottage was 
still standing, though entirely covered in the dark ivy and snow, but the right 
side of the top floor had been blown apart; that, Harry was sure, was where the 
curse had backfired. He and Hermione

stood at the gate, gazing up at the wreck of what must once have been a cottage 
just like those that flanked it.

"I wonder why nobody's ever rebuilt it?" whispered Hermione.

"Maybe you can't rebuild it?" Harry replied. "Maybe it's like the injuries from Dark 
Magic and you can't repair the damage?"

He slipped a hand from beneath the Cloak and grasped the snowy and thickly 
rusted gate, not wishing to open it, but simply so he'd some part of the house.

"You're not going to go inside? It looks unsafe, it might ? oh, Harry, look!"

His touch on the gate seemed to have done it. A sign had risen out of the 
ground in front of them, up thorough the tangles of nettles and weeds, like 
some bizarre, fast-growing flower, and in golden letters upon the wood it said:

On this spot, on this night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost 
their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived 
the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its 
ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence 
that tore apart their family.

And all around these neatly lettered words, scribbles had been added by other 
witches and wizards who had come to see the place where the Boy Who Lived had 
escaped. Some had merely signed their names in Everlasting Ink; others had 
carved their initials into the wood, still others had left messages. The most 
recent of these, shining brightly over sixteen years' worth of magical 
graffiti, all said similar things.

Good luck, Harry, wherever you are.

If you read this, Harry, we're all behind you!

Long live Harry Potter.

"They shouldn't have written on the sign!" said Hermione, indignant.

But Harry beamed at her.

"It's brilliant. I'm glad they did. I..."

He broke off. A heavily muffled figure was hobbling up the lane toward them, 
silhouetted by the bright lights in the distant square. Harry thought, though 
it was hard to judge, that the figure was a woman. She was moving slowly, 
possibly frightened of slipping on the snowy ground. Her stoop, her stoutness, 
her shuffling gait all gave an impression of

extreme age. They watched in silence as she drew nearer. Harry was waiting to 
see whether she would turn into any of the cottages she was passing, but he 
knew instinctively that she would not. At last she came to a halt a few yards 
from them and simply stood there in the middle of the frozen road, facing them.

He did not need Hermione's pinch to his arm. There was next to no chance that 
this woman was a Muggle: She was standing there gazing at a house that ought to 
have been completely invisible to her, if she was not a witch. Even assuming 
that she was a witch, however, it was odd behavior to come out on a night this 
cold, simply to look at an old ruin. By all the rules of normal magic, 
meanwhile, she ought not to be able to see Hermione and him at all. 
Nevertheless, Harry had the strangest feeling that she knew that they were 
there, and also who they were. Just as he had reached this uneasy conclusion, 
she raised a gloved hand and beckoned.

Hermione moved closer to him under the Cloak, her arm pressed against his.

"How does she know?"

He shook his head. The woman beckoned again, more vigorously. Harry could think 
of many reasons not to obey the summons, and yet his suspicions about her 
identity were growing stronger every moment that they stood facing each other 
in the deserted street.

Was it possible that she had been waiting for them all these long months? That 
Dumbledore had told her to wait, and that Harry would come in the end? Was it 
not likely that it was she who had moved in the shadows in the graveyard and 
had followed them to this spot? Even her ability to sense them suggested some 
Dumbledore-ish power that he had never encountered before.

Finally Harry spoke, causing Hermione to gasp and jump.


The muffled figure nodded and beckoned again.

Beneath the Cloak Harry and Hermione looked at each other. Harry raised his 
eyebrows; Hermione gave a tiny, nervous nod.

They stepped toward the woman and , at once, she turned and hobbled off back 
the way they had come. Leading them past several houses, she turned in at a 
gate. They followed her up the front path through a garden nearly as overgrown 
as the one they had just left. She fumbled for a moment with a key at the front 
door, then opened it and stepped back to let them pass.

She smelled bad, or perhaps it was her house; Harry wrinkled his nose as they 
sidled past her and pulled off the Cloak. Now that he was beside her, he 
realized how tiny she was; bowed down with age, she came barely level with his 
chest. She closed the door behind

them, her knuckles blue and mottled against the peeling paint, then turned and 
peered into Harry's face. Her eyes were thick with cataracts and sunken into 
folds of transparent skin, and her whole face was dotted with broken veins and 
liver spots. He wondered whether she could make him out at all; even if she 
could, it was the balding Muggle whose identity he had stolen that she would 

The odor of old age, of dust, of unwashed clothes and stale food intensified as 
the unwound a moth-eaten black shawl, revealing a head of scant white hair 
through which the scalp showed clearly.

"Bathilda?" Harry repeated.

She nodded again. Harry became aware of the locket against his skin; the thing 
inside it that sometimes ticked or beat had woken; he could feel it pulsing 
through the cold gold. Did it know, could it sense, that the thing that would 
destroy it was near?

Bathilda shuffled past them, pushing Hermione aside as though she had not seen 
her, and vanished into what seemed to be a sitting room.

"Harry, I'm not sure about this," breathed Hermione.

"Look at the size of her, I think we could overpower her if we had to," said Harry. 
"Listen, I should have told you, I knew she wasn't all there. Muriel called her 'gaga.'"

"Come!" called Bathilda from the next room.

Hermione jumped and clutched Harry's arm.

"It's okay," said Harry reassuringly, and he led the way into the sitting room.

Bathilda was tottering around the place lighting candles, but it was still very 
dark, not to mention extremely dirty. Thick dust crunched beneath their feet, 
and Harry's nose detected, underneath the dank and mildewed smell, something 
worse, like meat gone bad. He wondered when was the last time anyone had been 
inside Bathilda's house to check whether she was coping. She seemed to have 
forgotten that she could do magic, too, for she lit the candles clumsily by 
hand, her trailing lace cuff in constant danger of catching fire.

"Let me do that," offered Harry, and he took the matches from her. She stood 
watching him as he finished lighting the candle stubs that stood on saucers around the 
room, perched precariously on stacks of books and on side tables crammed with cracked and 
moldy cups.

The last surface on which Harry spotted a candle was a bow-fronted chest of 
drawers on which there stood a large number of photographs. When the flame 
danced into life, its reflection wavered on their dusty glass and silver. He 
saw a few tiny movements from the

pictures. As Bathilda fumbled with logs for the fire, he muttered "Tergeo": The 
dust vanished from the photographs, and he saw at once that half a dozen were missing 
from the largest and most ornate frames. He wondered whether Bathilda or somebody else 
had removed them. Then the sight of a photograph near the back of the collection caught 
his eye, and he snatched it up.

It was the golden-haired, merry-faced thief, the young man who had perched on 
Gregorovitch's windowsill, smiling lazily up at Harry out of the silver frame. 
And it came to Harry instantly where he had seen the boy before: in The Life 
and Lies of Albus Dumbledore, arm in arm with the teenage Dumbledore, and that 
must be where all the missing photographs were: in Rita's book.

"Mrs. ? Miss ? Bagshot?" he said, and his voice shook slightly. "Who is this?"

Bathilda was standing in the middle of the room watching Hermione light the 
fire for her.

"Miss Bagshot?" Harry repeated, and he advanced with the picture in his hands 
as the flames burst into life in the fireplace. Bathilda looked up at his voice, and the 
Horcrux beat faster upon his chest.

"Who is this person?" Harry asked her, pushing the picture forward.

She peered at it solemnly, then up at Harry.

"Do you know who this is?" he repeated in a much slower and louder voice than usual. 
"This man? Do you know him? What's he called?"

Bathilda merely looked vague. Harry felt an awful frustration. How had Rita 
Skeeter unlocked Bathilda's memories?

"Who is this man?" he repeated loudly.

"Harry, what area you doing?" asked Hermione.

"This picture. Hermione, it's the thief, the thief who stole from Gregorovitch! Please!" 
he said to Bathilda. "Who is this?"

But she only stared at him.

"Why did you ask us to come with you, Mrs. - Miss ? Bagshot?" asked Hermione, raising her 
own voice. "Was there something you wanted to tell us?"

Giving no sign that she had heard Hermione, Bathilda now shuffled a few steps 
closer to Harry. With a little jerk of her head she looked back into the hall.

"You want us to leave?" he asked.

She repeated the gesture, this time pointing firstly at him, then at herself, 
then at the ceiling.

"Oh, right... Hermione, I think she wants me to go upstairs with her."

"All right," said Hermione, "let's go."

But when Hermione moved, Bathilda shook her head with surprising vigor, once 
more pointing first at Harry, then to herself.

"She wants me to go with her, alone."

"Why?" asked Hermione, and her voice rang out sharp and clear in the candlelit 
room, the old lady shook her head a little at the loud noise.

"Maybe Dumbledore told her to give the sword to me, and only to me?"

"Do you really think she knows who you are?"

"Yes," said Harry, looking down into the milky eyes fixed upon his own. "I think she 

"Well, okay then, but be quick, Harry."

"Lead the way," Harry told Bathilda.

She seemed to understand, because she shuffled around him toward the door. 
Harry glanced back at Hermione with a reassuring smile, but he was not sure she 
had seen it; she stood hugging herself in the midst of the candlelit squalor, 
looking toward the bookcase. As Harry walked out of the room, unseen by both 
Hermione and Bathilda, he slipped the silver-framed photograph of the unknown 
thief inside his jacket.

The stairs were steep and narrow; Harry was half tempted to place his hands on 
stout Bathilda's backside to ensure that she did not topple over backward on 
top of him, which seemed only too likely. Slowly, wheezing a little, she 
climbed to the upper landing, turned immediately right, and led him into a 
low-ceilinged bedroom.

It was pitch-black and smelled horrible: Harry had just made out a chamber pot 
protruding from under the bed before Bathilda closed the door and even that was 
swallowed by the darkness.

"Lumos," said Harry, and his wand ignited. He gave a start: Bathilda had moved 
close to him in those few seconds of darkness, and he had not heard her approach.

"You are Potter?" she whispered.

"Yes, lam."

She nodded slowly, solemnly. Harry felt the Horcrux beating fast, faster than 
his own heart; It was an unpleasant, agitating sensation.

"Have you got anything for me?" Harry asked, but she seemed distracted by his 
lit wand-tip.

"Have you got anything for me?" he repeated.

Then she closed her eyes and several things happened at once: Harry's scar 
prickled painfully; the Horcrux twitched so that the front of his sweater 
actually moved; the dark, fetid room dissolved momentarily. He felt a leap of 
joy and spoke in a high, cold voice: Hold him!

Harry swayed where he stood: The dark, foul-smelling room seemed to close 
around him again; he did not know what had just happened.

"Have you got anything for me?" he asked for a third time, much louder.

"Over here," she whispered, pointing to the corner. Harry raised his wand and 
saw the outline of a cluttered dressing table beneath the curtained window.

This time she did not lead him. Harry edged between her and the unmade bed, his 
wand raised. He did not want to look away from her.

"What is it?" he asked as he reached the dressing table, which was heaped high 
with what looked and smelled like dirty laundry.

"There," she said, pointing at the shapeless mass.

And in the instant that he looked away, his eyes taking the tangled mess for a 
sword hilt, a ruby, she moved weirdly: He saw it out of the corner of his eye; 
panic made him turn and horror paralyzed him as he saw the old body collapsing 
and the great snake pouring from the place where her neck had been.

The snake struck as he raised his wand: The force of the bite to his forearm 
sent the wand spinning up toward the ceiling; its light swung dizzyingly around 
the room and was extinguished; Then a powerful blow from the tail to his 
midriff knocked the breath out of him: He fell backward onto the dressing 
table, into the mound of filthy clothing ?

He rolled sideways, narrowly avoiding the snake's tail, which thrashed down upon the 
table where he had been a second earlier. Fragments of the glass surface rained upon him 
as he hit the floor. From below he heard Hermione call, "Harry?"

He could not get enough breath into his lungs to call back: Then a heavy smooth 
mass smashed him to the floor and he felt it slide over him, powerful, muscular 

"No!" he gasped, pinned to the floor.

"Yes," whispered the voice. "Yesss... hold you ... hold you ..."

"Accio ... Accio Wand ..."

But nothing happened and he needed his hands to try to force the snake from him 
as it coiled itself around his torso, squeezing the air from him, pressing the 
Horcrux hard into his chest, a circle of ice that throbbed with life, inches 
from his own frantic heart, and his brain was flooding with cold, white light, 
all thought obliterated, his own breath drowned, distant footsteps, everything 

A metal heart was banging outside his chest, and now he was flying, flying with 
triumph in his heart, without need of broomstick or thestral...

He was abruptly awake in the sour-smelling darkness; Nagini had released him. 
He scrambled up and saw the snake outlined against the landing light: It 
struck, and Hermione dived aside with a shriek; her deflected curse hit the 
curtained window, which shattered. Frozen air filled the room as Harry ducked 
to avoid another shower of broken glass and his foot slipped on a pencil-like 
something ? his wand ?

He bent and snatched it up, but now the room was full of the snake, its tail 
thrashing; Hermione was nowhere to be seen and for a moment Harry thought the 
worst, but then there was a loud bang and a flash of red light, and the snake 
flew into the air, smacking Harry hard in the face as it went, coil after heavy 
coil rising up to the ceiling. Harry raised his wand, but as he did so, his 
scar seared more painfully, more powerfully than it had done in years.

"He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!"

As he yelled the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything was chaos: It smashed 
shelves from the wall, and splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped 
over the bed and seized the dark shape he knew to be Hermione ?

She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across the bed: The snake reared 
again, but Harry knew that worse than the snake was coming, was perhaps already 
at the gate, his head was going to split open with the pain from his scar ?

The snake lunged as he took a running leap, dragging Hermione with him; as it struck, 
Hermione screamed, "Confringo!" and her spell flew around the room, exploding 
the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling; Harry 
felt the heat of it sear the back of his hand. Glass cut his cheek as, pulling Hermione 
with him, he leapt from bed to broken dressing table and then straight out of the smashed 

into nothingness, her scream reverberating through the night as they twisted in 
midair ...

And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort and he was running across the 
fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he glimpsed 
the bald man and the little woman twist and vanish, and he screamed with rage, 
a scream that mingled with the girl's, that echoed across the dark gardens over 
the church bells ringing in Christmas Day...

And his scream was Harry's scream, his pain was Harry's pain... that it could 
happen here, where it had happened before... here, within sight of that house 
where he had come so close to knowing what it was to die ... to die ... the 
pain was so terrible ... ripped from his body ... But if he had no body, why 
did his head hurt so badly; if he was dead, how cold he feel so unbearably, 
didn't pain cease with death, didn't it go ...

The night wet and windy, two children dressed as pumpkins waddling across the 
square and the shop windows covered in paper spiders, all the tawdry Muggle 
trappings of a world in which they did not believe ... And he was gliding 
along, that sense of purpose and power and Tightness in him that he always knew 
on these occasions ... Not anger ... that was for weaker souls than he ... but 
triumph, yes ... He had waited for this, he had hoped for it...

"Nice costume, mister!"

He saw the small boy's smile falter as he ran near enough to see beneath the 
hood of the cloak, saw the fear cloud his pained face: Then the child turned 
and ran away ... Beneath the robe he fingered the handle of his wand ... One 
simple movement and the child would never reach his mother ... but unnecessary, 
quite unnecessary ...

And along a new and darker street he moved, and now his destination was in 
sight at last, the Fidelius Charm broken, though they did not know it yet... 
And he made less noise than the dead leaves slithering along the pavement as he 
drew level with the dark hedge, and steered over it...

They had not drawn the curtains; he saw them quite clearly in their little 
sitting room, the tall black-haired man in his glasses, making puffs of colored 
smoke erupt from his wand for the amusement of the small black-haired boy in 
his blue pajamas. The child was laughing and trying to catch the smoke, to grab 
it in his small fist...

A door opened and the mother entered, saying words he cold not hear, her long 
dark-red hair falling over her face. Now the father scooped up the son and 
handed him to the mother. He threw his wand down upon the sofa and stretched, 

The gate creaked a little as he pushed it open, but James Potter did not hear. 
His white hand pulled out the wand beneath his cloak and pointed it at the 
door, which burst open...

He was over the threshold as James came sprinting into the hall. It was easy, 
too easy, he

had not even picked up his wand ...

"Lily, take Harry and go! It's him! Go! Run! I'll hold him off!"

Hold him off, without a wand in his hand! ... He laughed before casting the 
curse ...


The green light filled the cramped hallway, it lit the pram pushed against the 
wall, it made the banisters glow like lighting rods, and James Potter fell like 
a marionette whose strings were cut...

He could hear her screaming from the upper floor, trapped, but as long as she 
was sensible, she, at least, had nothing to fear ... He climbed the steps, 
listening with faint amusement to her attempts to barricade herself in ... She 
had no wand upon her either ... How stupid they were, and how trusting, 
thinking that their safety lay in friends, that weapons could be discarded even 
for moments...

He forced the door open, cast aside the chair and boxes hastily piled against 
it with one lazy wave of his wand ... and there she stood, the child in her 
arms. At the sight of him, she dropped her son into the crib behind her and 
threw her arms wide, as if this would help, as if in shielding him from sight 
she hoped to be chosen instead ...

"Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl... stand aside, now."

"Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead ?"

"This is my last warning ?"

"Not Harry! Please ... have mercy ... have mercy ... Not Harry! Not Harry! Please ? 
I'll do anything ..."

"Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!"

He could have forced her away from the crib, but it seemed more prudent to 
finish them all ...

The green light flashed around the room and she dropped like her husband. The 
child had not cried all this time. He could stand, clutching the bars of his 
crib, and he looked up into the intruder's face with a kind of bright interest, 
perhaps thinking that it was his father who hid beneath the cloak, making more 
pretty lights, and his mother would pop up any moment, laughing ?

He pointed the wand very carefully into the boy's face: He wanted to see it 
happen, the

destruction of this one, inexplicable danger. The child began to cry: It had 
seen that he was not James. He did not like it crying, he had never been able 
to stomach the small ones whining in the orphanage ?


And then he broke. He was nothing, nothing but pain and terror, and he must 
hide himself, not here in the rubble of the ruined house, where the child was 
trapped screaming, but far away ... far away ...

"No," he moaned.

The snake rustled on the filthy, cluttered floor, and he had killed the boy, 
and yet he was the boy ...


And now he stood at the broken window of Bathilda's house, immersed in memories 
of his greatest loss, and at his feet the great snake slithered over broken 
china and glass... He looked down and saw something... something incredible...


"Harry, it's all right, you're all right!"

He stooped down and picked up the smashed photograph. There he was, the unknown 
thief, the thief he was seeking...

"No... I dropped it... I dropped it..."

"Harry, it's okay, wake up, wake up!"

He was Harry... Harry, not Voldemort... and the thing that was rustling was not 
a snake ... He opened his eyes.

"Harry," Hermione whispered. "Do you feel all ? all right?"

"Yes," he lied.

He was in the tent, lying on one of the lower bunks beneath a heap of blankets. 
He could tell that it was almost dawn by the stillness and quality of the cold, 
flat light beyond the canvas ceiling. He was drenched in sweat; he could feel 
it on the sheets and blankets.

"We got away."

"Yes," said Hermione. "I had to use a Hover Charm to get you into your bunk. I 

lift you. You've been ... Well, you haven't been quite ..."

There were purple shadows under her brown eyes and he noticed a small sponge in 
her hand: She had been wiping his face.

"You've been ill," she finished. "Quite ill."

"How long ago did we leave?"

"Hours ago. It's nearly morning."

"And I've been... what, unconscious?"

"Not exactly," said Hermione uncomfortably. "You've been shouting and moaning and 
... things," she added in a tone that made Harry feel uneasy. What had he done? Screamed 
curses like Voldemort, cried like the baby in the crib?

"I couldn't get the Horcrux off you," Hermione said, and he knew she wanted to change the 
subject. "It was stuck, stuck to your chest. You've got a mark; I'm sorry, I had to use a 
Severing Charm to get it away. The snake hit you too, but I've cleaned the wound and put some 
dittany on it..."

He pulled the sweaty T-shirt he was wearing away from himself and looked down. 
There was a scarlet oval over his heart where the locket had burned him. He 
could also see the half healed puncture marks to his forearm.

"Where've you put the Horcrux?"

"In my bag. I think we should keep it off for a while."

He lay back on his pillows and looked into her pinched gray face.

"We shouldn't have gone to Godric's Hollow. It's my fault, it's all my fault. 
Hermione, I'm sorry."

"It's not you fault. I wanted to go too; I really thought Dumbledore might have left 
the sword there for you."

"Yeah, well ... we got that wrong, didn't we?"

"What happened, Harry? What happened when she took you upstairs? Was the snake 
hiding somewhere? Did it just come out and kill her and attack you?"

"No." he said. "She was the snake ... or the snake was her ... all along."


He closed his eyes. He could still smell Bathilda's house on him; it made the 
whole thing horribly vivid.

"Bathilda must've been dead a while. The snake was ... was inside her. You-Know-Who 
put it there in Godric's Hollow, to wait. You were right. He knew I'd go back."

"The snake was inside her?"

He opened his eyes again. Hermione looked revolted, nauseated.

"Lupin said there would be magic we'd never imagined." Harry said. "She didn't want 
to talk in front of you, because it was Parseltongue, all Parseltongue, and I didn't realize, but 
of course I could understand her. Once we were up in the room, the snake sent a message to 
You-Know-Who, I heard it happen inside my head, I felt him get excited, he said to keep me there 
... and then ..."

He remembered the snake coming out of Bathilda's neck: Hermione did not need to 
know the details.

"...she changed, changed into the snake, and attacked."

He looked down at the puncture marks.

"It wasn't supposed to kill me, just keep me there till You-Know-Who came."

If he had only managed to kill the snake, it would have been worth it, all of 
it... Sick at heart, he sat up and threw back the covers.

"Harry, no, I'm sure you ought to rest!"

"You're the one who needs sleep. No offense, but you look terrible. I'm fine. I'll 
keep watch for a while. Where's my wand?"

She did not answer, she merely looked at him.

"Where's my wand, Hermione?"

She was biting her lip, and tears swam in her eyes.

"Harry ..."

"Where's my wand?"

She reached down beside the bed and held it out to him.

The holly and phoenix wand was nearly severed in two. One fragile strand of 
phoenix feather kept both pieces hanging together. The wood had splintered 
apart completely. Harry took it into his hands as though it was a living thing 
that had suffered a terrible injury. He could not think properly: Everything 
was a blur of panic and fear. Then he held out the want to Hermione.

"Mend it. Please."

"Harry, I don't think, when it's broken like this ?"

"Please, Hermione, try!"


The dangling half of the wand resealed itself. Harry held it up.


The wand sparked feebly, then went out. Harry pointed it at Hermione.


Hermione's wand gave a little jerk, but did not leave her hand. The feeble 
attempt at magic was too much for Harry's wand, which split into two again. He 
stared at it, aghast, unable to take in what he was seeing ... the wand that 
had survived so much ...

"Harry." Hermione whispered so quietly he could hardly hear her. "I'm so, so sorry. 
I think it was me. As we were leaving, you know, the snake was coming for us, and so I cast a 
Blasting Curse, and it rebounded everywhere, and it must have ? must have hit ?"

"It was an accident." said Harry mechanically. He felt empty, stunned. "We'll ? 
we'll find a way to repair it."

"Harry, I don't think we're going to be able to," said Hermione, the ears trickling down 
her face. "Remember ... remember Ron? When he broke his wand, crashing the car? It was never 
the same again, he had to get a new one."

Harry thought of Ollivander, kidnapped and held hostage by Voldemort; of 
Gregorovitch, who was dead. How was he supposed to find himself a new wand?

"Well," he said, in a falsely matter-of-fact voice, "well, I'll just borrow yours 
for now, then. While I keep watch."

Her face glazed with tears, Hermione handed over her wand, and he left her 
sitting beside his bed, desiring nothing more than to get away from her.

Chapter Eighteen

The Life and Lies of Alb us Dumbledore

     The sun was coming up: The pure, colorless vastness of the sky stretched 
over him, indifferent to him and his suffering. Harry sat down in the tent 
entrance and took a deep breath of clean air. Simply to be alive to watch the 
sun rise over the sparkling snowy hillside ought to have been the greatest 
treasure on earth, yet he could not appreciate it: His senses had been spiked 
by the calamity of losing his want. He looked out over a valley blanketed in 
snow, distant church bells chiming through the glittering silence.

     Without realizing it, he was digging his fingers into his arms as if he 
were trying to resist physical pain. He had spilled his own blood more times 
than he could count; he had lost all bones in his right arm once; this journey 
had already given him scars to his chest and forearm to join those on his hand 
and forehead, but never, until this moment, had he felt himself to be fatally 
weakened, vulnerable, and naked, as though the best part of his magical power 
had been torn from him. He knew exactly what Hermione would say if he expressed 
any of this: The wand is only as good as the wizard. But she was wrong, his 
case was different. She had not felt the wand spin like the needle of a compass 
and shoot golden flames at his enemy. He had lost the protection of the twin 
cores, and only now that it was gone did he realize how much he had been 
counting on it.

     He pulled the pieces of the broken wand out of his pocket and, without 
looking at them, tucked them away in Hagrid's pouch around his neck. The pouch 
was now too full of broken and useless objects to take any more. Harry's hand 
brushed the old Snitch through the mokeskin and for a moment he had to fight 
the temptation to pull it out and throw it away. Impenetrable, unhelpful, 
useless, like everything else Dumbledore had left behind ?

     And his fury at Dumbledore broke over him now like lava, scorching him 
inside, wiping out every other feeling. Out of sheer desperation they had 
talked themselves into believing that Godric's Hollow held answers, convinced 
themselves that they were supposed to go back, that it was all part of some 
secret path laid out for them by Dumbledore: but there was no map, no plan. 
Dumbledore had left them to grope in the darkness, to wrestle with unknown and 
undreamed-of terrors, alone and unaided: Nothing was explained, nothing was 
given freely, they had no sword, and now, Harry had no wand. And he had dropped 
the photograph of the thief, and it would surely be easy now for Voldemort to 
find out who he was . . .

Voldemort had all the information now . . .


     Hermione looked frightened that he might curse her with her own wand. Her 
face streaked with tears, she crouched down beside him, two cups of tea 
trembling in her hands and something bulky under her arm.

"Thanks," he said, taking one of the cups.

"Do you mind if I talk to you?"

"No," he said because he did not want to hurt her feelings.

     "Harry, you wanted to know who that man in the picture was. Well . . . I've got 
the book."

     Timidly she pushed it onto his lap, a pristine copy of The Life and Lies 
ofAlbus Dumbledore.

"Where ? how ? ?"

     "It was in Bathilda's sitting room, just lying there. . . . This note was 
sticking out of the top of it."

Hermione read the few lines of spiky, acid-green writing aloud.

     " 'Dear Bally, Thanks for your help. Here 's a copy of the book, hope you like 
it. You said everything, even if you don't remember it. Rita.' I think it must have 
arrived while the real Bathilda was alive, but perhaps she wasn't in any fit state to 
read it?"

"No, she probably wasn't."

     Harry looked down upon Dumbledore's face and experienced a surge of savage 
pleasure: Now he would know if all the things that Dumbledore had never thought 
it worth telling him, whether Dumbledore wanted him to or not.

     "You're still really angry at me, aren't you?" said Hermione; he looked up 
to see fresh tears leaking out of her eyes, and knew that his anger must have shown in 
his face.

     "No," he said quietly. "No, Hermione, I know it was an accident. You were 
trying to get us out of there alive, and you were incredible. I'd be dead if you hadn't been there 
to help me."

     He tried to return her watery smile, then turned his attention to the 
book. Its spine was stiff; it had clearly never been opened before. He riffled 
through the pages, looking for photographs. He came across the one he sought 
almost at once, the young Dumbledore and his handsome companion, roaring with 
laughter at some long-forgotten joke. Harry dropped his eyes to the caption.

Albus Dumbledore, shortly after his mother's death, With his friend Gellert 

     Harry gaped at the last word for several long moments. Grindelwald. His 
friend Grindelwald. He looked sideways at Hermione, who was still contemplating 
the name as though she could not believe her eyes. Slowly she looked up at 


     Ignoring the remainder of the photographs, Harry searched the pages around them for 
a recurrence of that fatal name. He soon discovered it and read greedily, but became 
lost: It was necessary to go farther back to make sense of it all, and eventually he 
found himself at the start of a chapter entitled "The Greater Good." Together, 
he and Hermione started to read:

Now approaching his eighteenth birthday, Dumbledore left Hogwarts in a blaze of glory ? 
Head Boy, Prefect, Winner of the Barnabus Finkley Prize for Exceptional Spell-Casting, 
British Youth Representative to the Wizengamot, Gold Medal-Winner for Ground-Breaking 
Contribution to the International Alchemical Conference in Cairo. Dumbledore intended, 
next, to take a Grand Tour with Elphias "Dogbreath" Doge, the dim-witted but 
devoted sidekick he had picked up at school.

 The two young men were staying at the Leaky Cauldron in London, preparing to depart for 
Greece the following morning, when an owl arrived bearing news of Dumbledore's mother's 
death. "Dogbreath" Doge, who refused to be interviewed for this book, has given 
the public his own sentimental

version of what happened next. He represents Kendra's death as a tragic blow, 
and Dumbledore's decision to give up his expedition as an act of noble 

 Certainly Dumbledore returned to Godric's Hollow at once, supposedly to "care" 
for his younger brother and sister. But how much care did he actually give them?

 "He were a head case, that Aberforth," said Enid Smeek, whose family lived on the 
outskirts of Godric's Hollow at that time. "Ran wild. 'Course, with his mum and dad gone you'd 
have felt sorry for him, only he kept chucking goat dung at my head. I don't think Albus was fussed 
about him. I never saw them together, anyway."

 So what was Albus doing, if not comforting his wild young brother? The answer, it seems, is 
ensuring the continued imprisonment of his sister. For though her first jailer had died, there was 
no change in the pitiful condition of Ariana Dumbledore. Her very existence continued to be known 
only to those few outsiders who, like "Dogbreath" Doge, could be counted upon to believe 
in the story of her "ill health."

 Another such easily satisfied friend of the family was Bathilda Bagshot, the 
celebrated magical historian who has lived in Godric's Hollow for many years. 
Kendra, of course, had rebuffed Bathilda when she first attempted to welcome 
the family to the village. Several years later, however, the author sent an owl 
to Albus at Hogwarts, having been favorably impressed by his paper on 
trans-species transformation in Transfiguration Today. This initial contract 
led to acquaintance with the entire Dumbledore family. At the time of Kendra's 
death, Bathilda was the only person in Godric's Hollow who was on speaking 
terms with Dumbledore's mother.

 Unfortunately, the brilliance that Bathilda exhibited earlier in her life has now dimmed. 
"The fire's lit, but the cauldron's empty," as Ivor Dillonsby put it to me, or, in Enid 
Smeek's slightly earthier phrase, "She's nutty as squirrel poo." Nevertheless, a 
combination of tried-and-tested reporting techniques enabled me to extract enough nuggets of hard 
fact to string together the whole scandalous story.

 Like the rest of the Wizarding world, Bathilda puts Kendra's premature death down to a backfiring 
charm, a story repeated by Albus and Aberforth in later years. Bathilda also parrots the family 
line on Ariana, calling her "frail" and "delicate." On one subject, however, 
Bathilda is well worth the effort I put into procuring Veritaserum, for she, and she alone, knows 
the full story of the best-kept secret of Albus Dumbledore's life. Now revealed for the first time, 
it calls into question everything that his admirers believed of Dumbledore: his supposed hatred of 
the Dark Arts, his opposition into the oppression of Muggles, even his devotion to his own family.

 The very same summer that Dumbledore went home to Godric's Hollow, now an 
orphan and head of the family, Bathilda Bagshot agreed to accept into her home 
her great-nephew, Gellert Grindelwald.

 The name of Grindelwald is justly famous: In a list of Most Dangerous Dark 
Wizards of All Time, he would miss out on the top spot only because You-

Know-Who arrived, a generation later, to steal his crown. As Grindelwald never 
extended his campaign of terror to Britain, however, the details of his rise to 
power are not widely known here.

 Educated at Durmstrang, a school famous even then for its unfortunate 
tolerance of the Dark Arts, Grindelwald showed himself quite as precociously 
brilliant as Dumbledore. Rather than channel his abilities into the attainment 
of awards and prizes, however, Gellert Grindelwald devoted himself no other 
pursuits. At sixteen years old, even Durmstrang felt it could no longer turn a 
blind eye to the twisted experiments of Gellert Grindelwald, and he was 

 Hitherto, all that has been known of Grindelwald's next movements is that he 
"traveled around for some months." It can now be revealed that Grindelwald 
chose to visit his great-aunt in Godric's Hollow, and that there, intensely shocking 
though it will be for many to hear it, he struck up a close friendship with none other 
than Albus Dumbledore.

 "He seemed a charming boy to me," babbles Bathilda, "whatever he became later. 
Naturally I introduced him to poor Albus, who was missing the company of lads his own age. The boys 
took to each other at once."

 They certainly did. Bathilda shows me a letter, kept by her that Albus 
Dumbledore sent Gellert Grindelwald in the dead of night.

 "Yes, even after they'd spent all day in discussion ? both such brilliant young 
boys, they got on like a cauldron on fire ? I'd sometimes hear an owl tapping at 
Gellert's bedroom window, delivering a letter from Albus! An idea would have struck him 
and he had to let Gellert know immediately!"

 And what ideas they were. Profoundly shocking though Albus Dumbledore's fans 
will find it, here are the thoughts of their seventeen-year-old hero, as 
relayed to his new best friend. (A copy of the original letter may be seen on 
page 463.)

Gellert ?

  Your point about Wizard dominance being FOR THE MUGGLES' OWN GOOD ? this, I 
think, is the crucial point. Yes, we have been given power and yes, that power 
gives us the right to rule, but it also gives us responsibilities over the 
ruled. We must stress this point, it will be the foundation stone upon which we 
build. Where we are opposed, as we surely will be, this must be the basis of 
all our counterarguments. We seize control FOR THE GREATER GOOD. And from this 
it follows that where we meet resistance, we must use only the force that is 
necessary and no more. (This was your mistake at Durmstrang! But I do not 
complain, because if you had not been expelled, we would never have met.)


 Astonished and appalled though his many admirers will be, this letter 
constitutes the Statute of Secrecy and establishing Wizard rule over Muggles. 
What a blow for those who have always portrayed Dumbledore as the Muggle-borns' 
greatest champion! How hollow those speeches promoting Muggle rights

seem in the light of this damning new evidence! How despicable does Albus 
Dumbledore appear, busy plotting his rise to power when he should have been 
mourning his mother and caring for his sister!

 No doubt those determined to keep Dumbledore on his crumbling pedestal will 
bleat that he did not, after all, put his plans into action, that he must have 
suffered a change of heart, that he came to his senses. However, the truth 
seems altogether more shocking.

 Barely two months into their great new friendship, Dumbledore and Grindelwald 
parted, never to see each other again until they met for their legendary duel 
(for more, see chapter 22). What caused this abrupt rupture? Had Dumbledore 
come to his senses? Had he told Grindelwald he wanted no more part in his 
plans? Alas, no.

 "It was poor little Ariana dying, I think, that did it," says Bathilda. "It 
came as an awful shock. Gellert was there in the house when it happened, and he came back to 
my house all of a dither, told me he wanted to go home the next day. Terribly distressed, you 
know. So I arranged a Portkey and that was the last I saw of him.

 "Albus was beside himself at Ariana's death. It was so dreadful for those two 
brothers. They had lost everybody except for each other. No wonder tempers ran a 
little high. Aberforth blamed Albus, you know, as people will under these dreadful 
circumstances. But Aberforth always talked a little madly, poor boy. All the same, 
breaking Albus's nose at the funeral was not decent. It would have destroyed Kendra 
to see her sons fighting like that, across her daughter's body. A shame Gellert 
could not have stayed for the funeral. ... He would have been a comfort to Albus, at 
least. . . .

 This dreadful coffin-side brawl, known only to those few who attended Ariana 
Dumbledore's funeral, raises several questions. Why exactly did Aberforth Dumbledore 
blame Albus for his sister's death? Was it, as "Batty" pretends, a mere 
effusion of grief? Or could there have been some more concrete reason for his fury? 
Grindelwald, expelled from Durmstrang for the near-fatal attacks upon fellow students, 
fled the country hours after the girl's death, and Albus (out of shame or fear?) never 
saw him again, not until forced to do so by the pleas of the Wizarding world.

 Neither Dumbledore nor Grindelwald ever seems to have referred to this brief 
boyhood friendship in later life. However, there can be no doubt that 
Dumbledore delayed, for some five years of turmoil, fatalities, and 
disappearances, his attack upon Gellert Grindelwald. Was it lingering affection 
for the man or fear of exposure as his once best friend that caused Dumbledore 
to hesitate? Was it only reluctantly that Dumbledore set out to capture the man 
he was once so delighted he had met?

 And how did the mysterious Ariana die? Was she the inadvertent victim of some Dark rite? 
Did she stumble across something she ought not to have done, as the two young men sat 
practicing for their attempt at glory and domination? Is it possible that Ariana 
Dumbledore was the first person to die "for the greater good"?

     The chapter ended here and Harry looked up. Hermione had reached the 
bottom of the page before him. She tugged the book out of Harry's hands, 
looking a little alarmed by his expression, and closed it without looking at 
it, as though hiding something indecent.


     But he shook his head. Some inner certainty had crashed down inside him; 
it was exactly as he had felt after Ron left. He had trusted Dumbledore, 
believed him the embodiment of goodness and wisdom. All was ashes: How much 
more could he lose? Ron, Dumbledore, the phoenix wand . . .

     "Harry." She seemed to have heard his thoughts. "Listen to me. It ? it doesn't 
make a very nice reading ?"

"Yeah, you could say that ?"

"? but don't forget, Harry, this is Rita Skeeter writing."

"You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn't you?"

     "Yes, I ? I did." She hesitated, looking upset, cradling her tea in her cold hands. 
"I think that's the worst bit. I know Bathilda thought it was all just talk, but 'For the 
Greater Good' became Grindelwald's slogan, his justification for all the atrocities he committed 
later. And . . . from that... it looks like Dumbledore gave him the idea. They say 'For the Greater 
Good' was even carved over the entrance to Nurmengard."

"What's Nurmengard?"

     "The prison Grindelwald had built to hold his opponents. He ended up in there 
himself, once Dumbledore had caught him. Anyway, it's ? it's an awful thought that 
Dumbledore's ideas helped Grindelwald rise to power. But on the other hand, even Rita 
can't pretend that they knew each other for more than a few months one summer when they 
were both really young, and ?"

     "I thought you'd say that," said Harry. He did not want to let his anger spill out 
at her, but it was hard to keep his voice steady. "I thought you'd say 'They were young.' They 
were the same age as we are now. And here we are, risking our lives to fight the Dark Arts, and 
there he was, in a huddle with his new best friend, plotting their rise to power over the 

     His temper would not remain in check much longer: He stood up and walked 
around, trying to work some of it off.

     "I'm not trying to defend what Dumbledore wrote," said Hermione. "All that 
'right to rule' rubbish, it's 'Magic Is Might' all over again. But Harry, his mother had just died, 
he was stuck alone in the house ?"

     "Alone? He wasn't alone! He had his brother and sister for company, his Squib 
sister he was keeping locked up ?"

  "I don't believe it," said Hermione. She stood up too. "Whatever was wrong with 
that girl, I don't think she was a Squib. The Dumbledore we knew would never, ever have 

     "The Dumbledore we thought we knew didn't want to conquer Muggles by 
force!" Harry shouted, his voice echoing across the empty hilltop, and several 
blackbirds rose into the air, squawking and spiraling against the pearly sky.

     "He changed, Harry, he changed! It's as simple as that! Maybe he did 
believe these things when he was seventeen, but the whole of the rest of his life 
was devoted to fighting the Dark Arts! Dumbledore was the one who stopped 
Grindelwald, the one who

always voted for Muggle protection and Muggle born rights, who fought You-Know-Who 
from the start, and who died trying to bring him down!"

     Rita's book lay on the ground between them, so that the face of Albus 
Dumbledore smiled dolefully at both.

     "Harry, I'm sorry, but I think the real reason you're so angry is that 
Dumbledore never told you any of this himself."

     "Maybe I am!" Harry bellowed, and he flung his arms over his head, hardly knowing 
whether he was trying to hold in his anger or protect himself from the weight of his own 
disillusionment. "Look what he asked from me, Hermione! Risk your life, Harry! And again! And 
again! And don't expect me to explain everything, just trust me blindly, trust that I know what I'm 
doing, trust me even though I don't trust you! Never the whole truth! Never!"

     His voice cracked with the strain, and they stood looking at each other in 
the whiteness and emptiness, and Harry felt they were as insignificant as 
insects beneath that wide sky.

"He loved you," Hermione whispered. "I know he loved you."

Harry dropped his arms.

     "I don't know who he loved, Hermione, but it was never me. This isn't love, the 
mess he's left me in. He shared a damn sight more of what he was really thinking with 
Gellert Grindelwald than he ever shared with me."

     Harry picked up Hermione's wand, which he had dropped in the snow, and sat 
back down in the entrance of the tent.

  "Thanks for the tea. I'll finish the watch. You get back in the warm." She 
hesitated, but recognized the dismissal. She picked up the book and then walked back past 
him into the tent, but as she did so, she brushed the top of his head lightly with her 
hand. He closed his eyes at her touch, and hated himself for wishing that what she said 
was true: that Dumbledore had really cared.

Chapter Nineteen The Silver Doe

     It was snowing by the time Hermione took over the watch at midnight. 
Harry's dreams were confused and disturbing: Nagini wove in and out of them, 
first through a wreath of Christmas roses. He woke repeatedly, panicky, 
convinced that somebody had called out to him in the distance, imagining that 
the wind whipping around the tent was footsteps or voices.

     Finally he got up in the darkness and joined Hermione, who was huddled in 
the entrance to the tent reading A History of Magic by the light of her wand. 
The snow was falling thickly, and she greeted with relief his suggestion of 
packing up early and moving on.

     "We'll somewhere more sheltered," she agreed, shivering as she pulled on a 
sweatshirt over her pajamas. "I kept thinking I could hear people moving outside. I even 
though I saw somebody one or twice."

     Harry paused in the act of pulling on a jumper and glanced at the silent, 
motionless Sneakoscope on the table.

     "I'm sure I imagined it," said Hermione, looking nervous.  "The snow the dark, 
it plays tricks on your eyes.... But perhaps we ought to Disapparate under the Invisibility Cloak, 
justin case?"

     Half an hour later, with the tent packed, Harry wearing the Horcrux, and 
Hermione clutching the beaded bag, they Disapparated. The usual tightness 
engulfed them; Harry's feet parted company with the snowy ground, then slammed 
hard onto what felt like frozen earth covered in leaves.

     "Where are we?" he asked, peering around at the fresh mass of trees as 
Hermione opened the beaded bag and began tugging out the tent poles.

     "The Forest of Dean," she said, "I came camping here once with my mum and 

     Here too snow lay on the trees all around and it was bitterly cold, but 
they were at least protected from the wind. They spent most of the day inside 
the tent, huddled for warmth around the useful bright blue flames that Hermione 
was adept at producing, and which could be scooped up and carried in ajar. 
Harry felt as though he was recuperating from some brief but severe, an 
impression reinforced by Hermione's solicitousness. That afternoon fresh flakes 
drifted down upon them, so that even their sheltered clearing had a fresh 
dusting of powdery snow.

     After two nights of little sleep, Harry's senses seemed more alert than 
usual. Their escape from Godric's Hollow had been so narrow that Voldemort 
seemed somehow closer than before, more threatening. As darkness drove in again 
Harry refused Hermione's offer to keep watch and told her to go to bed.

     Harry moved an old cushion into the tent mouth and sat down, wearing all 
the sweaters he owned but even so, still shivery. The darkness deepened with 
the passing hours until it was virtually impenetrable. He was on the point of 
taking out the Marauder's Map, so as to watch Ginny's dot for a while, before 
he remembered that it was the Christmas holidays and that she would be back at 
the Burrow.

     Every tiny movement seemed magnified in the vastness of the forest. Harry 
knew that it must be full of living creatures, but he wished they would all 
remain still and silent so that he could separate their innocent scurryings and 
prowlings from noises that might proclaim other, sinister movements. He 
remembered the sound of a cloak slithering over dead leaves many years ago, and 
at once thought he heard it again before mentally shaking himself. Their 
protective enchantments had worked for weeks; why should they break now? And 
yet he could no throw off the feeling that something was different tonight.

     Several times he jerked upright, his neck aching because he had fallen 
asleep, slumped at an awkward angle against the side of the tent. The night 
reached such a depth of velvety blackness that he might have been suspended in 
limbo between Disapparation and Apparation. He had just held a hand in front of 
his face to see whether he could make out his fingers when it happened.

     A bright silver light appeared right ahead of him, moving through the 
trees. Whatever the source, it was moving soundlessly. The light seemed simply 
to drift toward him.

     He jumped to his feet, his voice frozen in his throat, and raised 
Hermione's wand. He screwed up his eyes as the light became blinding, the trees 
in front of it pitch black in silhouette, and still the thing came closer....

     And then the source of the light stepped out from behind an oak. It was a 
silver white doe, moon-bright and dazzling, picking her way over the ground, 
still silent, and leaving no hoofprints in the fine powdering of snow. She 
stepped toward him, her beautiful head with its wide, long-lashed eyes held 

     Harry stared at the creature, filled with wonder, not at her strangeness, 
but her inexplicable familiarity. He felt that he had been waiting for her to 
come, but that he had forgotten, until this moment, that they had arranged to 
meet. His impulse to shout for Hermione, which had been so strong a moment ago, 
had gone. He knew, he would have staked his life on it, that she had come for 
him, and him alone.

     They gazed at each other for several long moments and then she turned and 
walked away.

"No," he said, and his voice was cracked with lack of use. "Come back!"

     She continued to step deliberately through the trees, and soon he 
brightness was striped by their thick black trunks. For one trembling second he 
hesitated. Caution murmured it could be a trick, a lure, a trap. But instinct, 
overwhelming instinct, told him that this was not Dark Magic. He set off in 

     Snow crunched beneath his feet, but the doe made no noise as she passed 
through the trees, for she was nothing but light. Deeper and deeper into the 
forest she led him, and Harry walked quickly, sure that when she stopped, she 
would allow him to approach her properly. And then she would speak and the 
voice would tell him what he needed to know.

     At last she came to a halt. She turned her beautiful head toward him once 
more, and he broke into a run, a question burning in him, but as he opened his 
lips to ask it, she vanished.

     Though the darkness had swallowed her whole, her burnished image was still 
imprinted on his retinas; it obscured his vision, brightening when he lowered 
his eyelids, disorienting him. Now fear came: Her presence had meant safety.

"Lumos!" he whispered, and the wand-tip ignited.

     The imprint of the doe faded away with every blink of his eyes as he stood 
there, listening to the sounds of the forest, to distant crackles of twigs, 
soft swishes of snow. Was he about to be attacked? Had she enticed him into an 
ambush? Was he imagining that somebody stood beyond the reach of the wandlight, 
watching him?

     He held the wand higher. Nobody ran out at him, no flash of green light 
burst from behind a tree. Why, then, had she led him to this spot?

     Something gleamed in the light of the wand, and Harry spun about, but all 
that was there was a small, frozen pool, its black, cracked surface glittering 
as he raised his wand higher to examine it.

     He moved forward rather cautiously and looked down. The ice reflected his 
distorted shadow and the beam of wandlight, but deep below the thick, misty 
gray carapace, something else glinted. A great silver cross...

     His heart skipped into his mouth: He dropped to his knees at the pool's 
edge and angled the wand so as to flood the bottom of the pool with as much 
light as possible. A

glint of deep red...It was a sword with glittering rubies in its hilt....The 
sword of Gryffindor was lying at the bottom of the forest pool.

     Barely breathing, he stared down at it. How was this possible? How could 
it have come to be lying in a forest pool, this close to the place where they 
were camping? Had some unknown magic drawn Hermione to this spot, or was the 
doe, which he had taken to be a Patronus, some kind of guardian of the pool? Or 
had the sword been put into the pool after they had arrived, precisely because 
they were here? In which case, where was the person who wanted to pass it to 
Harry? Again he directed the wand at the surrounding trees and bushes, 
searching for a human outline, for the glint of an eye, but he could not see 
anyone there. All the same, a little more fear leavened his exhilaration as he 
returned his attention to the sword reposing upon the bottom of the frozen pool.

He pointed the wand at the silvery shape and murmured, "Actio Sword."

     It did not stir. He had not expected it to. If it had been that easy the 
sword would have lain on the ground for him to pick up, not in the depths of a 
frozen pool. He set off around the circle of ice, thinking hard about the last 
time the sword had delivered itself to him. He had been in terrible danger 
then, and had asked for help.

     "Help," he murmured, but the sword remained upon the pool bottom, 
indifferent, motionless.

     What was it, Harry asked himself (walking again), that Dumbledore had told 
him the last time he had retrieved the sword? Only a true Gryffindor could have 
pulled that out of the hat. And what were the qualities that defined a 
Gryffindor? A small voice inside Harry's head answered him:  Their daring nerve 
and chivalry set Gryffindor apart.

     Harry stopped walking and let out a long sigh, his smoky breath dispersing 
rapidly upon the frozen air. He knew what he had to do. If he was honest with 
himself, he had thought it might come to this from the moment he had spotted 
the sword through the ice.

     He glanced around at the surrounding trees again, but was convinced now 
that nobody was going to attack him. They had had their chance as he walked 
alone through the forest, had had plenty of opportunity as he examined the 
pool. The only reason to delay at this point was because the immediate prospect 
was so deeply uninviting.

     With fumbling fingers Harry started to remove his many layers of clothing. Where 
"chivalry" entered into this, he thought ruefully, he was not entirely sure, 
unless it counted as chivalrous that he was not calling for Hermione to do it in his 

     An owl hooted somewhere as he stripped off, and he thought with a pang of 
Hedwig. He was shivering now, his teeth chattering horribly, and yet he 
continued to strip off until at last he stood there in his underwear, 
barefooted in the snow. He placed the pouch containing his wand, his mother's 
letter, the shard of Sirius's mirror, and the old Snitch on top of his clothes, 
then he pointed Hermione's wand at the ice.


     It cracked with a sound like a bullet in the silence. The surface of the 
pool broke and chunks of dark ice rocked on the ruffled water. As far as Harry 
could judge, it was not deep, but to retrieve the sword he would have to 
submerge himself completely.

     Contemplating the task ahead would not make it easier or the water warmer. 
He stepped to the pool's edge and placed Hermione's wand on the ground still 
lit. Then, trying not to imagine how much colder he was about to become or how 
violently he would soon be shivering, he jumped.

     Every pore of his body screamed in protest. The very air in his lungs 
seemed to freeze solid as he was submerged to his shoulders in the frozen 
water. He could hardly breathe: trembling so violently the water lapped over 
the edges of the pool, he felt for the blade with his numb feet. He only wanted 
to dive once.

     Harry put off the moment of total submersion from second to second, 
gasping and shaking, until he told himself that it must be done, gathered all 
his courage, and dived.

     The cold was agony: It attacked him like fire. His brain itself seemed to 
have frozen as he pushed through the dark water to the bottom and reached out, 
groping for the sword. His fingers closed around the hilt; he pulled it upward.

     Then something closed tight around his neck. He thought of water weeds, 
though nothing had brushed him as he dived, and raised his hand to free 
himself. It was not weed: The chain of the Horcrux had tightened and was slowly 
constricting his windpipe.

     Harry kicked out wildly, trying to push himself back to the surface, but 
merely propelled himself into the rocky side of the pool. Thrashing, 
suffocating, he scrabbled at the strangling chain, his frozen fingers unable to 
loosen it, and now little lights were popping inside his head, and he was going 
to drown, there was nothing left, nothing he could do, and the arms that closed 
around his chest were surely Death's....

     Choking and retching, soaking and colder than he had ever been in his 
life, he came to facedown in the snow. Somewhere, close by, another person was 
panting and coughing and staggering around, as she had come when the snake 
attacked....Yet it did not sound like her, not with those deep coughs, no 
judging by the weight of the footsteps....

     Harry had no strength to lift his head and see his savior's identity. All 
he could do was raise a shaking hand to his throat and feel the place where the 
locket had cut tightly into his flesh. It was gone. Someone had cut him free. 
Then a panting voice spoke from over his head.

"Are ? you ? mental?"

     Nothing but the shock of hearing that voice could have given Harry the 
strength to get up. Shivering violently, he staggered to his feet. There before 
him stood Ron, fully dressed but drenched to the skin, his hair plastered to 
his face, the sword of Gryffindor in one hand and the Horcrux dangling from its 
broken chain in the other.

     "Why the hell," panted Ron, holding up the Horcrux, which swung backward and forward 
on its shortened chain in some parody of hypnosis, "didn't you take the thing off before you 

     Harry could not answer. The silver doe was nothing, nothing compared with 
Ron's reappearance; he could not believe it. Shuddering with cold, he caught up 
the pile of clothes still lying at the water's edge and began to pull them on. 
As he dragged sweater after sweater over his head, Harry stared at Ron, half 
expecting him to have disappeared every time he lost sight of him, and yet he 
had to be real: He had just dived into the pool, he had saved Harry's life.

     "It was y-you?" Harry said at last, his teeth chattering, his voice weaker 
than usual due to his near-strangulation.

"Well, yeah," said Ron, looking slightly confused.

"Y-you cast that doe?"

"What? No, of course not! I thought it was you doing it!"

"My Patronus is a stag."

"Oh yeah. I thought it looked different. No antlers."

     Harry put Hagrid's pouch back around his neck, pulled on a final sweater, 
stooped to pick up Hermione's wand, and faced Ron again.

"How come you're here?"

Apparently Ron had hoped that this point would come up later, if at all.

     "Well, I've ? you know ? I've come back. If--" He cleared his throat. "You 
know. You still want me."

     There was a pause, in which the subject of Ron's departure seemed to rise 
like a wall between them. Yet he was here. He had returned. He had just saved 
Harry's life.

     Ron looked down at his hands. He seemed momentarily surprised to see the 
things he was holding.

     "Oh yeah, I got it out," he said, rather unnecessarily, holding up the sword for 
Harry's inspection.  "That's why you jumped in, right?"

     "Yeah," said Harry.  "But I don't understand. How did you get here? How did you 
find us?"

     "Long story," said Ron.  "I've been looking for you for hours, it's a big 
forest, isn't it? And I was just thinking I'd have to go kip under a tree and wait for morning when 
I saw that dear coming and you following."

"You didn't see anyone else?"

"No," said Ron.  "I--"

But he hesitated, glancing at two trees growing close together some yards away.

     "I did think I saw something move over there, but I was running to the pool at 
the time, because you'd gone in and you hadn't come up, so I wasn't going to make a 
detour to-hey!"

     Harry was already hurrying to the place that Ron had indicated. The two 
oaks grew close together; there was a gap of only a few inches between the 
trunks at eye level, an ideal place to see but not be seen. The ground around 
the roots, however, was free of snow, and Harry could see no sign of 
footprints. He walked back to where Ron stood waiting, still holding the sword 
and the Horcrux.

"Anything there?" Ron asked.

"No," said Harry.

"So how did the sword get in that pool?"

"Whoever cast the Patronus must have put it there."

     They both looked at the ornate silver sword, its rubied hilt glinting a 
little in the light from Hermione's wand.

"You reckon this is the real one?" asked Ron.

"One way to find out, isn't there?" said Harry.

     The Horcrux was still swinging from Ron's hand. The locket was twitching 
slightly. Harry knew that the thing inside it was agitated again. It had sensed 
the presence of the sword and had tried to kill Harry rather than let him 
possess it. Now was not the time for long discussions; now was the moment to 
destroy once and for all. Harry looked around, holding Hermione's wand high, 
and saw the place: a flattish rock lying in the shadow of a sycamore tree.

     "Come here." he said and he led the way, brushed snow from the rock's 
surface, and held out his hand for the Horcrux. When Ron offered the sword, however, 
Harry shook his head.

"No you should do it."

"Me?" said Ron, looking shocked.  "Why?"

"Because you got the sword out of the pool. I think it's supposed to be you."

     He was not being kind or generous. As certainly as he had known that the 
doe was benign, he knew that Ron had to be the one to wield the sword. 
Dumbledore had at least taught Harry something about certain kinds of magic, of 
the incalculable power of certain acts.

     "I'm going to open it," said Harry, "and you will stab it.  Straightaway okay? 
Because whatever's in there will put up a fight. The bit of Riddle in the Diary tried to kill 

"How are you going to open it?" asked Ron. He looked terrified

     "I'm going to ask it to open, using Parseltongue," said Harry. The answer 
came so readily to his lips that thought that he had always known it deep down: Perhaps 
it had taken his recent encounter with Nagini to make him realize it. He looked at the 
serpentine S, inlaid with glittering green stones: It was easy to visualize it as a 
miniscule snake, curled upon the cold rock.

"No!" said Ron.  "Don't open it! I'm serious!"

"Why not?" asked Harry.  "Let's get rid of the damn thing, it's been months ?"

"I can't, Harry, I'm serious ? you do it ?"

"But why?"

     "Because that thing's bad for me!" said Ron, backing away from the locket on the 
rock. "I can't handle it! I'm not making excuses, for what I was like, but it affects me worse 
than it affects you and Hermione, it made me think stuff ? stuff that I was thinking anyway, but it 
made everything worse. I can't explain it, and then I'd take it off and I'd get my head straight 
again, and then I'd have to put the effing thing back on ? I can't do it Harry!"

He had backed away, the sword dragging at his side, shaking his head.

     "You can do it," said Harry, "you can! You've just got the sword, I know it's 
supposed to be you who uses it. Please just get rid of it Ron."

     The sound of his name seemed to act like a stimulant. Ron swallowed, then 
still breathing hard through his long nose, moved back toward the rock.

"Tell me when," he croaked.

     "On three," said Harry, looking back down at the locket and narrowing his 
eyes, concentrating on the letter S, imagining a serpent, while the contents of the 
locket rattled like a trapped cockroach. It would have been easy to pity it, except that 
the cut around Harry's neck still burned.

"One . . . two . . . three . . .open."

     The last word came as a hiss and a snarl and the golden doors of the 
locket swung wide open with a little click.

     Behind both of the glass windows within blinked a living eye, dark and 
handsome as Tom Riddle's eyes had been before he turned them scarlet and 

"Stab," said Harry, holding the locket steady on the rock.

     Ron raised the sword in his shaking hands: The point dangled over the 
frantically swiveling eyes, and Harry gripped the locket tightly, bracing 
himself, already imagining blood pouring from the empty windows.

Then a voice hissed from out the Horcrux.

"I have seen your heart, and it is mine."

"Don't listen to it!" Harry said harshly. " Stab it!"

     "I have seen your dreams, Ronald Weasley, and I have seen your fears. All you 
desire is possible, but all that you dread is also possible.... "

     "Stab!" shouted Harry, his voice echoed off the surrounding trees, the 
sword point trembled, and Ron gazed down into Riddle's eyes.

     "Least loved, always, by the mother who craved a daughter . . . Least loved, now, by the 
girl who prefers your friend. . . Second best, always, eternally overshadowed. . ." "Ron, 
stab it now!" Harry bellowed: He could feel the locket quivering in the grip and was scared of 
what was coming. Ron raised the sword still higher, and as he did so, Riddle's eyes gleamed scarlet.

Out of the locket's two windows, out of the eyes, there bloomed like two 
grotesque bubbles, the heads of Harry and Hermione, weirdly distorted.

Ron yelled in shock and backed away as the figures blossomed out of the locket, 
first chests, then waists, then legs, until they stood in the locket, side by 
side like trees with a common root, swaying over Ron and the real Harry, who 
had snatched his fingers away from the locket as it burned, suddenly, white-hot.

"Ron!" he shouted, but the Riddle-Harry was now speaking with Voldemort's voice 
and Ron was gazing, mesmerized, into its face.

" Why return? We were better without you, happier without you, glad of your 
absence.... We laughed at your stupidity, your cowardice, your presumption??"

"Presumption!" echoed the Riddle-Hermione, who was more beautiful and yet more terrible 
than the real Hermione: She swayed, cackling, before Ron, who looked horrified, yet transfixed, the 
sword hanging pointlessly at his side. "Who could look at you, who would ever look at you, 
beside Harry Potter? What have you ever done, compared with the Chosen One? What are you, compared 
with the Boy Who Lived?"

"Ron, stab it, STAB IT!" Harry yelled, but Ron did not move. His eyes were 
wide, and the Riddle-Harry and the Riddle-Hermione were reflected in them, their hair 
swirling like flames, their eyes shining red, their voices lifted in an evil duet.

"Your mother confessed," sneered Riddle-Harry, while Riddle-Hermione jeered, "that 
she would have preferred me as a son, would be glad to exchange..."

" Who wouldn't prefer him, what woman would take you, you are nothing, nothing, 
nothing to him," crooned Riddle-Hermione, and she stretched like a snake and 
entwined herself around Riddle-Harry, wrapping him in a close embrace: Their lips met.

On the ground in front of them, Ron's face filled with anguish, he raised the 
sword high, his arms shaking.

"Doit, Ron! "Harry yelled.

Ron looked toward him, and Harry thought he saw a trace of scarlet in his eyes.


The sword flashed, plunged: Harry threw himself out of the way, there as a 
clang of metal and a long, drawn-out scream. Harry whirled around, slipping in 
the snow, wand held ready to defend himself, but there was nothing to fight.

The monstrous versions of himself and Hermione were gone: There was only Ron, 
standing there with the sword held slackly in his hand, looking down at the 
shattered remains of the locket on the flat rock.

Slowly, Harry walked back to him, hardly knowing what to say or do. Ron was 
breathing heavily: His eyes were no longer red at all, but their normal blue: 
they were also wet.

Harry stooped, pretending he had not seen, and picked up the broken Horcrux. 
Ron had pierced the glass in both windows: Riddle's eyes were gone, and the 
stained silk lining of the locket was smoking slightly. The thing that had 
lived in the Horcrux had vanished; torturing Ron had been its final act. The 
sword clanged as Ron dropped it. He had sunk to his knees, his head in his 
arms. He was shaking, but not, Harry realized, from cold. Harry crammed the 
broken locket into his pocket, knelt down beside Ron, and placed a hand 
cautiously on his shoulder. He took it as a good sign that Ron did not throw it 

"After you left," he said in a low voice, grateful for the fact that Ron's face was 
hidden, "she cried for a week. Probably longer, only she didn't want me to see. There were 
loads of nights when we never even spoke to each other. With you gone..."

He could not finish; it was now that Ron was here again that Harry fully 
realized how much his absence had cost them.

"She's like my sister," he went on. "I love her like a sister and I reckon that she 
feels the same way about me. It's always been like that. I thought you knew."

Ron did not respond, but turned his face away from Harry and wiped his nose 
noisily on his sleeve. Harry got to his feet again and walked to where Ron's 
enormous rucksack lay yards away, discarded as Ron had run toward the pool to 
save Harry from drowning. He hoisted it onto his own back and walked back to 
Ron, who clambered to his feet as Harry approached, eyes bloodshot but 
otherwise composed.

"I'm sorry," he said in a thick voice. "I'm sorry I left. I know I was a ? a ?"

He looked around at the darkness, as if hoping a bad enough word would swoop 
down upon him and claim him.

"You've sort of made up for it tonight," said Harry. "Getting the sword. Finishing 
off the Horcrux. Saving my life."

"That makes me sound a lot cooler than I was," Ron mumbled.

"Stuff like that always sounds cooler than it really was" said Harry. "I've been 
trying to tell you that for years."

Simultaneously they walked forward and hugged, Harry gripping the still-sopping 
back of Ron's jacket.

"And now," said Harry as they broke apart, "all we've got to do is find that tent 

But it was not difficult. Though the walk through the dark forest with the doe 
had seemed lengthy, with Ron by his side, the journey back seemed to take a 
surprisingly short time. Harry could not wait to wake Hermione, and it was with 
quickening excitement that he entered the tent, Ron lagging a little behind him.

It was gloriously warm after the pool and the forest, the only illumination the 
bluebell flames still shimmering in a bowl on the floor. Hermione was fast 
asleep, curled up under her blankets, and did not move until Harry had said her 
name several times.


She stirred, then sat up quickly, pushing her hair out of her face.

"What's wrong? Harry? Are you all right?"

"It's okay, everything's fine. More than fine, I'm great. There's someone here."

"What do you mean? Who --?"

She saw Ron, who stood there holding the sword and dripping onto the threadbare 
carpet. Harry backed into a shadowy corner, slipped off Ron's rucksack, and 
attempted to blend in with the canvas.

Hermione slid out of her bunk and moved like a sleepwalker toward Ron, her eyes 
upon his pale face. She stopped right in front of him, her lips slightly 
parted, her eyes wide. Ron gave a weak hopeful smile and half raised his arms.

Hermione launched herself forward and started punching every inch of him that 
she could reach.

"Ouch -- ow -- gerroff! What the --? Hermione -- OW!"

"You ? complete ? arse ? Ronald ? Weasley!"

She punctuated every word with a blow: Ron backed away, shielding his head as 
Hermione advanced.

"You ? crawl ? back ? here ? after ? weeks ? and ? weeks ? oh, where's my wand?"

She looked as though ready to wrestle it out of Harry's hands and he reacted 


The invisible shield erupted between Ron and Hermione. The force of it knocked 
her backward onto the floor. Spitting hair out of her mouth, she lept up again.

"Hermione!" said Harry. "Calm ?"

"I will not calm down!" she screamed. Never before had he seen her lose control like 
this; she looked quite demented. "Give me back my wand! Give it back to me!"

"Hermione, will you please ?"

"Don't you tell me what do, Harry Potter!" she screeched. "Don't you dare! Give it 
back now! And YOU!"

She was pointing at Ron in dire accusation: It was like a malediction, and 
Harry could not blame Ron for retreating several steps.

"I cam running after you! I called you! I begged you to come back"

"I know," Ron said, "Hermione, I'm sorry, I'm really ?"

"Oh, you're sorry!"

She laughed a high-pitched, out-of-control sound; Ron looked at Harry for help, 
but Harry merely grimaced his helplessness.

"You came back after weeks ? weeks ? and you think it's all going to be all right if 
you just say sorry?"

"Well, what else can I say?" Ron shouted, and Harry was glad that Ron was 
fighting back.

"Oh, I don't know!" yelled Hermione with awful sarcasm. "Rack your brains, Ron, that 
should only take a couple of seconds ?"

"Hermione," interjected Harry, who considered this a low blow, "he just saved my 

"I don't care!" she screamed. "I don't care what he's done! Weeks and weeks, we 
could have been dead for all he knew ?"

"I knew you weren't dead!" bellowed Ron, drowning her voice for the first time, and 
approaching as close as he could with the Shield Charm between them. "Harry's all over the 
Prophet, all over the radio, they're looking for you everywhere, all these rumors and mental 
stories, I knew I'd hear straight off if you were dead, you don't know what it's been like ?"

"What it's been like for you??

Her voice was not so shrill only bats would be able to hear it soon, but she 
had reached a level of indignation that rendered her temporarily speechless, 
and Ron seized his opportunity.

"I wanted to come back the minute I'd Disapparated, but I walked straight into a 
gang of Snatchers, Hermione, and I couldn't go anywhere!"

"A gang of what?" asked Harry, as Hermione threw herself down into a chair with 
her arms and legs crossed so tightly it seemed unlikely that she would unravel them for 
several years.

"Snatchers," said Ron. "They're everywhere ? gangs trying to earn gold by rounding 
up Muggle-borns and blood traitors, there's a reward from the Ministry for everyone captured. I was 
on my own and I look like I might be school age; they got really excited, thought I was a 
Muggle-born in hiding. I had to talk fast to get out of being dragged to the Ministry."

"What did you say to them?"

"Told them I was Stan Shunpike. First person I could think of."

"And they believed that?"

"They weren't the brightest. One of them was definitely part troll, the smell of 

Ron glanced at Hermione, clearly hopeful she might soften at this small 
instance of humor, but her expression remained stony above her tightly knotted 

"Anyway, they had a row about whether I was Stan or not. It was a bit pathetic to be 
honest, but there were still five of them and only one of me, and they'd taken my wand. Then 
two of them got into a fight and while the others were distracted I managed to hit the one 
holding me in the stomach, grabbed his wand, Disarmed the bloke holding mine, and 
Disapparated. I didn't do it so well. Splinched myself again" ? Ron held up his right 
hand to show two missing fingernails: Hermione raised her eyebrows coldly ? "and I

came out miles from where you were. By the time I got back to that bit of riverbank 
where we'd been ... you were gone."

"Gosh, what a gripping story," Hermione said in the lofty voice she adopted when wishing 
to wound. "You must have been simply terrified. Meanwhile we went to Godric's Hollow and, 
let's think, what happened there, Harry? Oh yes, You-Know-Who's snake turned up, it nearly killed 
both of us, and then You-Know-Who himself arrived and missed us by about a second."

"What?" Ron said, gaping from her to Harry, but Hermione ignored him.

"Imagine losing fingernails, Harry! That really puts our sufferings into 
perspective, doesn't it?"

"Hermione," said Harry quietly, "Ron just saved my life."

She appeared not to have heard him.

"One thing I would like to know, though," she said, fixing her eyes on a spot a foot over 
Ron's head. "How exactly did you find us tonight? That's important. Once we know, we'll be 
able to make sure we're not visited by anyone else we don't want to see."

Ron glared at her, then pulled a small silver object from his jeans pocket.


She had to look at Ron to see what he was showing them.

"The Deluminator?" she asked, so surprised she forgot to look cold and fierce.

"It doesn't just turn the lights on and off," said Ron. "I don't know how it works 
or why it happened then and not any other time, because I've been wanting to come back ever since I 
left. But I was listening to the radio really early on Christmas morning and I heard ... I heard 

He was looking at Hermione.

"You heard me on the radio?" she asked incredulously.

"No, I heard you coming out of my pocket. Your voice," he held up the Deluminator again, 
"came out of this."

"And what exactly did I say?" asked Hermione, her tone somewhere between 
skepticism and curiosity.

"My name. 'Ron.' And you said ... something about a wand...."

Hermione turned a fiery shade of scarlet. Harry remembered: it had been the 
first time Won's name had been said aloud by either of them since the day he 
had left; Hermione had mentioned it when talking about repairing Harry's wand.

"So I took it out," Ron went on, looking at the Deluminator, "and it didn't seem 
different or anything, but I was sure I'd heard you. So I clicked it. And the light went out in my 
room, but another light appeared right outside the window."

Ron raised his empty hand and pointed in front of him, his eyes focused on 
something neither Harry nor Hermione could see.

"It was a ball of light, kind of pulsing, and bluish, like that light you get around 
a Portkey, you know?"

"Yeah," said Harry and Hermione together automatically.

"I knew this was it," said Ron. "I grabbed my stuff and packed it, then I put 
on my rucksack and went out into the garden.

"The little ball of light was hovering there, waiting for me, and when I came out it 
bobbed along a bit and I followed it behind the shed and then it... well, it went inside 

"Sorry?" said Harry, sure he had not heard correctly.

"It sort of floated toward me," said Ron, illustrating the movement with his free index finger, 
"right to my chest, and then ? it just went straight through. It was here," he touched a point 
close to his heard, "I could feel it, it was hot. And once it was inside me, I knew what I was supposed 
to do. I knew it would take me where I needed to go. So I Disapparated and came out on the side of a hill. 
There was snow everywhere...."

"We were there," said Harry. "We spent two nights there, and the second night I kept 
thinking I could hear someone moving around in the dark and calling out!"

"Yeah, well, that would've been me," said Ron. "Your protective spells work, anyway, 
because I couldn't see you and I couldn't hear you. I was sure you were around, though, so in the 
end I got in my sleeping bag and waited for one of you to appear. I thought you'd have to show 
yourselves when you packed up the tent."

"No, actually," said Hermione. "We've been Disapparating under the Invisibility 
Cloak as an extra precaution. And we left really early, because as Harry says, we'd heard somebody 
blundering around."

"Well, I stayed on that hill all day," said Ron. "I kept hoping you'd appear. 
But when it started to get dark I knew I must have missed you, so I clicked the Deluminator 
again, the

blue light came out and went inside me, and I Disapparated and arrived here in these 
woods. I still couldn't see you, so I just had to hope one of you would show 
yourselves in the end ? and Harry did. Well, I saw the doe first, obviously."

"You saw the what?" said Hermione sharply.

They explained what had happened and as the story of the silver doe and the 
sword in the pool unfolded, Hermione frowned form one to the other of them, 
concentrating so hard she forgot to keep her limbs locked together.

"But it must have been a Patronus!" she said. "Couldn't you see who was casting it? 
Didn't you see anyone? And it led you to the sword! I can't believe this! Then what happened?"

Ron explained how he had watched Harry jump into the pool, and had waited for 
him to resurface; how he had realized that something was wrong, dived in, and 
saved Harry, then returned for the sword. He got as far as the opening of the 
locket, then hesitated, and Harry cut in.

"? and Ron stabbed it with the sword."

"And ... and it went? Just like that?" she whispered.

"Well, it ? it screamed," said Harry with half a glance at Ron. "Here."

He threw the locket into her lap; gingerly she picked it up and examined its 
punctured windows.

Deciding that it was at last safe to do so, Harry removed the Shield Charm with 
a wave of Hermione's wand and turned to Ron.

"Did you just say now that you got away from the snatchers with a spare wand?"

"What?" said Ron, who had been watching Hermione examining the locket. "Oh ? oh 

He tugged open a buckle on his rucksack and pulled a short dark wand out of his pocket. 
"Here, I figured it's always handy to have a backup."

"You were right," said Harry, holding out his hand. "Mine's broken."

"You're kidding?" Ron said, but at that moment Hermione got to her feet, and he 
looked apprehensive again.

Hermione put the vanquished Horcrux into the beaded bag, then climbed back into 
her bed and settled down without another word.

Ron passed Harry the new wand.

"About the best you could hope for, I think," murmured Harry.

"Yeah," said Ron. "Could've been worse. Remember those birds she set on me?"

"I still haven't ruled it out," came Hermi one's muffled voice from beneath her 
blankets, but Harry saw Ron smiling slightly as he pulled his maroon pajamas out of his 

Chapter Twenty Xenophilius Lovegood

Harry had not expected Hermione's anger to abate over night and was therefore 
unsurprised that she communicated mainly by dirty looks and pointed silences 
the next morning. Ron responded by maintaining an unnaturally somber demeanor 
in her presence as an outward sign of continuing remorse. In fact, when all 
three of them were together Harry felt like the only non-mourner at a poorly 
attended funeral. During those few moments he spent alone with Harry, however 
(collecting water and searching the undergrowth for mushrooms). Ron became 
shamelessly cheery.

"Someone helped us," he kept saying, "Someone sent that doe, Someone's on our side, 
One Horcrux down, mate!"

Bolstered by the destruction of the locket they set to debating the possible 
locations of the other Horcruxes and even though they had discussed the matter 
so often before. Harry felt optimistic, certain that more breakthroughs would 
succeed the first. Hermione's sulkiness could not mar his buoyant spirits; The 
sudden upswing in their fortunes, the appearance of the mysterious due, the 
recovery of Gryffindor's sword, and above all, Ron's return made Harry so happy 
that it was quite difficult to maintain a straight face.

Late in the afternoon he and Ron escaped Hermione's baleful presence again and 
under the pretense of scouring the bare hedges for nonexistent blackberries, 
they continued their ongoing exchange of news. Harry had finally managed to 
tell Ron the whole story of his and Hermione's various wanderings, right up to 
the full story of what had happened at Godric's Hollow; Ron was now filling 
Harry in on everything he had discovered about the wider Wizarding world during 
his weeks away.

"... and how did you find out about the Taboo?" he asked Harry after explaining the 
many desperate attempts of Muggle-borns to evade the Ministry."

"The what?"

"You and Hermione have stopped saying You-Know-Who's name!"

"Oh, yeah, Well, it's just a bad habit we've slipped into," said Harry. "But I 
haven't got a problem calling him V ?"

"NO!" roared Ron, causing Harry to jump into the hedge and Hermione (nose buried in a book at the 
tent entrance) to scowl over at them. "Sorry," said Ron, wrenching Harry back out of the brambles, 
"but the name's been jinxed, Harry, that's how they track people! Using his name breaks protective 
enchantments, it causes some kind of magical disturbance ? it's how they found us in Tottenham Court 

"Because we used his *name*?"

"Exactly! You've got to give them credit, it makes sense. It was only people who 
were serious about standing up to him, like Dumbledore, who even dared use it. Now 
they've put a Taboo on it, anyone who says it is trackable ? quick-and-easy way to find 
Order members! They nearly got Kingsley ?"

"You're kidding?"

"Yeah, a bunch of Death Eaters cornered him, Bill said but he fought his way out. He's on the 
run now just like us." Ron scratched his chin thoughtfully with the end of his wand. "You 
don't reckon Kingsley could have sent that doe?"

"His Patronus is a lynx, we saw it at the wedding, remember?"

"Oh yeah..."

They moved farther along the hedge, away from the tent and Hermione.

"Harry... you don't reckon it could've been Dumbledore?"

"Dumbledore what?"

Ron looked a little embarrassed, but said in a low voice, "Dumbledore ... the doe? I 
mean," Ron was watching Harry out of the corners of his eyes, "he had the real sword 
last, didn't he?

Harry did not laugh at Ron, because he understood too well the longing behind 
the question. The idea that Dumbledore had managed to come back to them, that 
he was watching over them, would have inexpressibly comforting. He shook his 

"Dumbledore's dead," he said. "I saw it happen, I saw the body. He's definitely 
gone. Anyway his Patronus was a phoenix, not a doe"

"Patronuses can change, though can't they?" said Ron, "Tonks's changed didn't 

Yeah, but if Dumbledore was alive, why wouldn't he show himself? Why wouldn't 
he just hand us the sword?

"Search me," said Ron. "Same reason he didn't give it to you while he was alive? 
Same reason he left you an old Snitch and Hermione a book of kid's stories?"

"Which is what?" asked Harry, turning to look Ron full in the face desperate 
for the answer.

"I dunno," said Ron. "Sometimes I've thought, when I've been a bit hacked off, he was having a 
laugh or ? or he just wanted to make it more difficult, But I don't think so, not anymore. He knew what he 
was doing when he gave me the Deluminator, didn't he? He ? well," Ron's ears turned bright red and he 
became engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he prodded with his toe, "he must've known I'd 
run out on you."

"No," Harry corrected him. "He must've known you'd always want to come back."

Ron looked grateful, but still awkward. Partly to change the subject, Harry said, 
"Speaking of Dumbledore, have you heard what Skeeter wrote about him?"

"Oh yeah," said Ron at once, "people are talking about it quite a lot. 'Course, if 
things were different it'd be huge news, Dumbledore being pals with Grindelwald, but now it's just 
something to laugh about for people who didn't like Dumbledore, and a bit of a slap in the face for 
everyone who thought he was such a good bloke. I don't know that it's such a big deal, though. He 
was really young when they ?"

"Our age," said Harry, just as he had retorted to Hermione, and something in 
his face seemed to decide Ron against pursuing the subject.

A large spider sat in the middle of a frosted web in the brambles. Harry took 
aim at it with the wand Ron had given him the previous night, which

Hermione had since condescended to examine, and had decided was made of 


"The spider gave a little shiver, bouncing slightly in the web. Harry tried 
again. This time the spider grew slightly larger.

"Stop that," said Ron sharply, " I'm sorry I said Dumbledore was young, okay?"

Harry had forgotten Ron's hatred of spiders.

"Sorry ? *Reducio*"

The spider did not shrink. Harry looked down at the blackthorn wand. Every 
minor spell he had cast with it so far that day had seemed less powerful than 
those he had produced with his phoenix wand. The new one felt intrusively 
unfamiliar, like having somebody else's hand sewn to the end of his arm.

"You just need to practice," said Hermione, who had approached them noiselessly from 
behind and had stood watching anxiously as Harry tried to enlarge and reduce the spider. "It's 
all a matter of confidence Harry."

He knew why she wanted it to be all right; She still felt guilty about breaking 
his wand. He bit back the retort that sprung to his lips, that she could take 
the blackthorn wand if she thought it made no difference, and he would have 
hers instead. Keen for them all to be friends again, however, he agreed; but 
when Ron gave Hermione a tentative smile, she stalked off and vanished behind 
her book once more.

All three of them returned to the tent when darkness fell, and Harry took first 
watch. Sitting in the entrance, he tried to make the blackthorn wand levitate 
small stones at his feet; but his magic still seemed clumsier and less powerful 
than it had done before. Hermione was lying on her bunk reading, while Ron, 
after many nervous glances up at her, had taken a small wooden wireless out of 
his rucksack and started to try to tune it.

"There's this one program," he told Harry in a low voice, "that tells the news like 
it really is. All the others are on You-Know-Who's side and are following the Ministry line, but 
this one ... you wait till you hear it, it's great. Only they can't do it every night, they have to 
keep changing locations in case they're raided and you need a password to tune in ... Trouble is, I 
missed the last one..."

He drummed lightly on the top of the radio with his wand muttering random words 
under his breath. He threw Hermione many covert glances, plainly fearing an 
angry outburst, but for all the notice she took of him he might not have been 
there. For ten minutes or so Ron tapped and muttered, Hermione turned the pages 
of her book, and Harry continued to practice with the blackthorn wand.

Finally Hermione climbed down from her bunk. Ron ceased his tapping at once.

"If it's annoying you, I'll stop!" he told Hermione nervously.

Hermione did not deign to respond, but approached Harry.

"We need to talk," she said.

He looked at the book still clutched in her hand. It was * The Life and Lies of 
Albus Dumbledore.*

"What?" he said apprehensively. It flew through his mind that there was a 
chapter on him in there; he was not sure he felt up to hearing Rita's version of his 
relationship with Dumbledore. Hermione's answer however, was completely unexpected.

"I want to go and see Xenophilius Lovegood."

He stared at her.


"Xenophilius Lovegood, Luna's father. I want to go and talk to him!"


     She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself, and said, "It's that mark, 
the mark in Beedle the Bard. Look at this!"

     She thrust The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore under Harry's unwilling 
eyes and saw a photograph of the original letter that Dumbledore had written 
Grindelwald, with Dumbledore's familiar thin, slanting handwriting. He hated 
seeing absolute proof that Dumbledore really had written those words, that they 
had not been Rita's invention.

"The signature," said Hermione. "Look at the signature, Harry!"

     He obeyed. For a moment he had no idea what she was talking about, but, 
looking more closely with the aid of his lit wand, he saw that Dumbledore had 
replaced the^4 of Albus with a tiny version of the same triangular mark 
inscribed upon The Tales of Beedle the Bard.

     "Er - what are you ? ?" said Ron tentatively, but Hermione quelled him 
with a look and turned back to Harry.

     "It keeps cropping up, doesn't it?" she said. "I know Viktor said it was 
Grindelwald's mark, but it was definitely on that old grave in Godric's Hollow, and the

dates on the headstone were long before Grindelwald came along! And now this! Well, 
we can't ask Dumbledore or Grindelwald what it means -1 don't even know whether 
Grindelwald's still alive - but we can ask Mr. Lovegood. He was wearing the symbol 
at the wedding. I'm sure this is important, Harry!"

     Harry did not answer immediately. He looked into her intense, eager face and then 
out into the surrounding darkness, thinking. After a long pause he said, "Hermione, 
we don't need another Godric's Hollow. We talked ourselves into going there, and -"

    "But it keeps appearing, Harry! Dumbledore left me The Tales ofBeedle the Bard, 
how do you know we're not supposed to find out about the sign?"

     "Here we go again!" Harry felt slightly exasperated. "We keep trying to 
convince ourselves Dumbledore left us secret signs and clues -"

     "The Deluminator turned out to be pretty useful," piped up Ron. "I think 
Hermione's right, I think we ought to go and see Lovegood."

     Harry threw him a dark look. He was quite sure that Ron's support of 
Hermione had little to do with a desire to know the meaning of the triangular 

     "It won't be like Godric's Hollow," Ron added, "Lovegood's on your side, Harry, 
The Quibbler 's been for you all along, it keeps telling everyone they've got to help you!"

"I'm sure this is important!" said Hermione earnestly.

     "But don't you think if it was, Dumbledore would have told me about it before 
he died?"

     "Maybe . . . maybe it's something you need to find out for yourself," said 
Hermione with a faint air of clutching at straws.

"Yeah," said Ron sycophantically, "that makes sense."

     "No, it doesn't," snapped Hermione, "but I still think we ought to talk to Mr. 
Lovegood. A symbol that links Dumbledore, Grindelwald, and Godric's Hollow? Harry, I'm sure we 
ought to know about this!"

     "I think we should vote on it," said Ron. "Those in favor of going to see Love 
good -"

     His hand flew into the air before Hermione's. Her lips quivered 
suspiciously as she raised her own.

"Outvoted, Harry, sorry," said Ron, clapping him on the back.

     "Fine," said Harry, half amused, half irritated. "Only, once we've seen 
Lovegood, let's try and look for some more Horcruxes, shall we? Where do the Lovegood's live, 
anyway? Do either of you know?

     "Yeah, they're not far from my place," said Ron. "I dunno exactly where, but 
Mum and Dad always point toward the hills whenever they mention them. Shouldn't be hard to 

When Hermione had returned to her bunk, Harry lowered his voice.

"You only agreed to try and get back in her good books."

     "All's fair in love and war," said Ron brightly, "and this is a bit of both. 
Cheer up, it's the Christmas holidays, Luna'll be home!"

     They had an excellent view of the village of Ottery St. Catchopole from 
the breezy hillside to which they Disapparated next morning. From their high 
vantage point the village looked like a collection of toy houses in the great 
slanting shafts of sunlight stretching to earth in the breaks between clouds. 
They stood for a minute or two looking toward the Burrow, their hands shadowing 
their eyes, but all they could make out were

the high hedges and trees of the orchard, which afforded the crooked little 
house protection from Muggle eyes.

"It's weird, being this near, but not going to visit," said Ron.

     "Well, it's not like you haven't just seen them. You were there for 
Christmas," said Hermione coldly.

     "I wasn't at the Burrow!" said Ron with an incredulous laugh. "Do you think I 
was going to go back there and tell them all I'd walked out on you? Yeah, Fred and George would've 
been great about it. And Ginny, she'd have been really understanding."

"But where have you been, then?" asked Hermione, surprised.

     "Bill and Fleur's new place. Shell cottage. Bill's always been decent to me. He 
-he wasn't impressed when he heard what I'd done, but he didn't go on about it. He knew I 
was really sorry. None of the rest of the family know I was there. Bill told Mum he and 
Fleur weren't going home for Christmas because they wanted to spend it alone. You know, 
first holiday after they were married. I don't think Fleur minded. You know how much she 
hates Celestina Warbeck."

Ron turned his back on the Burrow.

"Let's try up here," he said, leading the way over the top of the hill.

     They walked for a few hours, Harry, at Hermione's insistence, hidden 
beneath the Invisibility Cloak. The cluster of low hills appeared to be 
uninhabited apart from one small cottage, which seemed deserted.

     "Do you think it's theirs, and they've gone away for Christmas?" said 
Hermione, peering through the window at a neat little kitchen with geraniums on the 
windowsill. Ron snorted.

     "Listen, I've got a feeling you'd be able to tell who lived there if you looked 
through the Lovegoods' window. Let's try the next lot of hills."

So they Disapparated a few miles farther north.

     "Aha!" shouted Ron, as the wind whipped their hair and clothes. Ron was pointing 
upward, toward the top of the hill on which they had appeared, where a most strange-looking house 
rose vertically against the sky, a great black cylinder with a ghostly moon hanging behind it in 
the afternoon sky. "That's got to be Luna's house, who else would live in a place like that? 
It looks like a giant rook!"

"It's nothing like a bird," said Hermione, frowning at the tower.

"I was talking about a chess rook," said Ron. "A castle to you."

     Ron's legs were the longest and he reached the top of the hill first. When 
Harry and Hermione caught up with him, panting and clutching stitches in their 
sides, they found him grinning broadly.

"It's theirs," said Ron. "Look."

Three hand-painted signs had been tacked to a broke-down gate. The first read, 

the second,


the third,


     The gate creaked as they opened it. The zigzagging path leading to the 
front door was overgrown with a variety of odd plants, including a bush covered 
in orange radishlike fruit Luna sometimes wore as earrings. Harry thought he 
recognized a Snargaluff and gave the wizened stump a wide berth. Two aged crab 
apple trees, bent with the wind, stripped of leaves but still heavy with 
berry-sized red fruits and bushy crowns of white beaded mistletoe, stood 
sentinel on either side of the front door. A little owl with a slightly 
flattened hawklike head peered down at them from one of the branches.

     "You'd better take off the Invisibility Cloak, Harry," said Hermione. "It's you 
Mr. Lovegood wants to help, not us."

     He did as she suggested, handing her the Cloak to stow in the beaded bag. 
She then rapped three times on the thick black door, which was studded with 
iron nails and bore a knocker shaped like an eagle.

     Barely ten seconds passed, then the door was flung open and there stood 
Xenophilius Lovegood, barefoot and wearing what appeared to be a stained 
nightshirt. His long white candyfloss hair was dirty and unkempt. Xenophilius 
had been positively dapper at Bill and Fleur's wedding by comparison.

 "What? What is it? Who are you? What do you want?" he cried in a high-pitched, 
querulous voice, looking first at Hermione, then at Ron, and finally at Harry, upon which 
his mouth fell open in a perfect, comical O.

 "Hello, Mr. Lovegood," said Harry, holding out his hand, "I'm Harry, Harry 

 Xenophilius did not take Harry's hand, although the eye that was not pointing 
inward at his nose slid straight to the scar on Harry's forehead.

 "Would it be okay if we came in?" asked Harry. "There's something we'd like to ask 

 "I. . . I'm not sure that's advisable," whispered Xenophilius, He swallowed and cast a 
quick look around the garden. "Rather a shock . . . My word . . . I. . . I'm afraid I don't 
really think I ought to ?"

 "It wont take long" said Harry, slightly disappointed by this less-than-warm 

"I ? oh, all right then. Come in, quickly, Quickly!"

 They were barely over the threshold when Xenophilius slammed the door shut 
behind them, They were standing in the most peculiar kitchen Harry had ever 
seen. The room was perfectly circular, so that he felt like being inside a 
giant pepper pot. Everything was curved to fit the walls - the stove, the sink, 
and the cupboards - and all of it had been painted with flowers, insects, and 
birds in bright primary colors. Harry thought he recognized Luna's styles. The 
effect in such and enclosed space, was slightly overwhelming.

 In the middle of the floor, a wrought-iron spiral staircase Id to the upper 
levels. There was a great deal of clattering and banging coming from overhead: 
Harry wondered what Luna could be doing.

 "You'd better come up." said Xenophilius, still looking extremely 
uncomfortable, and he led the way.

The room above seemed to be a combination of living room and workplace,

and as such, was even more cluttered than the kitchen. Though much smaller and 
entirely round, the room somewhat resembled the Room of Requirement on the 
unforgettable occasion that it had transformed itself into a gigantic labyrinth 
comprised of centuries of hidden objects. There were piles upon piles of books 
and papers on every surface. Delicately made models of creatures Harry did not 
recognize, all flapping wings or snapping jaws, hung from the ceiling.

 Luna was not there: The thing that was making such a racket was a wooden 
object covered in magically turning cogs and wheels, It looked like the bizarre 
offspring of a workbench and a set of shelves, but after a moment Harry deduced 
that it was an old-fashioned printing press, due to the fact that it was 
churning out Quibblers.

 "Excuse me," said Xenophilius, and he strode over to the machine, seized 
grubbily tablecloth from beneath an immense number of books and papers, which all tumbled 
onto the floor, and threw it over the press, somewhat muffling the loud bangs and 
clatters. He then faced Harry.

 "Why have you come here?" Before Harry could speak, however, Hermione let out 
a small cry of shock.

"Mr. Lovegood - what's that?"

 See was pointing at an enormous, gray spiral horn, not unlike that of a 
unicorn, which had been mounted on the wall, protruding several feet into the 

"It is the horn of a Crumple-Horned Snorkack," said Xenophilius.

"No it isn't!" said Hermione.

"Hermione," muttered Harry, embarrassed, "now's not the moment -"

 "But Harry, it's an Erumpent horn! It's a Class B Tradeable Material and it's an 
extraordinary dangerous thing to have in a house!"

 "How'd you know it's an Erumpent horn?" asked Ron, edging away from the horn 
as fast as he could, given the extreme clutter of the room.

 "There's a description in Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them! Mr. Lovegood, 
you need to get rid of it straightaway, don't you know it can explode at the slightest 

 "The Crumple Horned Snorkack" said Xenophilius very clearly, a mulish look upon his 
face, "is a shy and highly magical creature, and it's horn -"

 "Mr. Lovegood. I recognize the grooved markings around the base, that's an Erumpent 
horn and it's incredibly dangerous -1 don't know where you got it-"

 "I bought it," said Xenophilius dogmatically. "Two weeks ago, from a delightful young wizard 
who knew my interest in the exquisite Snorkack. A Christmas surprise for my Luna. Now," he said, turning 
to Harry, "why exactly have you come here, Mr. Potter?"

"We need some help," said Harry, before Hermione could start again.

"Ah," said Xenophilius, "Help, Hmm."

 His good eye moved again to Harry's scar. He seemed simultaneously terrified 
and mesmerized.

"Yes. The thing is ... helping Harry Potter ... rather dangerous..."

 "Aren't you the one who keeps telling everyone it's their first duty to help Harry?" 
said Ron. "In that magazine of yours?"

 Xenophilius glanced behind him at the concealed printing press, still banging 
and clattering beneath the tablecloth.

"Er - yes, I have expressed that view, however -"

"That's for everyone else to do, not you personally?" said Ron.

 Xenophilius did not answer. He kept swallowing, his eyes darting between the 
three of them. Harry had the impression that he was undergoing some painful 
internal struggle.

"Where's Luna?" asked Hermione. "Let's see what she thinks."

 Xenophilius gulped. He seemed to be steeling himself. Finally he said in a shaky voice 
difficult to hear over the noise of the printing press, "Luna is down at the stream, 
fishing for Freshwater Plimpies. She...she will like to see you. I'll go and call her and 
then - yes, very well. I shall try to help you."

 He disappeared down the spiral staircase and they heard the front open and 
close. They looked at each other.

"Cowardly old wart," said Ron. "Luna's got ten times his guts."

 "He's probably worried about what'll happen to them if the Death Eaters find out I 
was here" said Harry.

 "Well, I agree with Ron, " said Hermione, "Awful old hypocrite, telling everyone 
else to help you and trying to worm our of it himself. And for heaven's sake keep away from that 

 Harry crossed to the window on the far side of the room. He could see a 
stream, a thin, glittering ribbon lying far below them at the base of the hill. 
They were very high up; a bird fluttered past the window as he stared in the 
direction of the Burrow, now invisible beyond another line of hills. Ginny was 
over there somewhere. They were closer to each other today than they had been 
since Bill and Fleur's wedding, but she could have no idea he was gazing toward 
her now, thinking of her. He suppose he ought to be glad of it; anyone he came 
into contact with was in danger, Xenophilius's attitude proved that.

 he turned away from the windows and his gaze fell upon another peculiar object 
standing upon the cluttered, curved slide board; a stone but of a beautiful but 
austere-looking witch wearing a most bizarre-looking headdress. Two objects 
that resembled golden ear trumpets curved out from the sides. A tiny pair of 
glittering blue wing was stuck to a leather strap that ran over the top of her 
head, while one of the orange radishes had been stuck to a second strap around 
her forehead.

"Look at this," said Harry.

"Fetching," said Ron. "Surprised he didn't hear that to the wedding."

 They heard the front door close, and a moment later Xenophilius climbed back 
up the spiral staircase into the room, his thin legs now encase in Wellington 
boots, bearing a tray of ill-assorted teacups and a steaming teapot.

"Ah, you have spotted my pet invention," he said, shoving the tray into

Hermione's arms and joining Harry at the statue's side.

"Modeled, fittingly enough, upon the head of the beautiful Rowens Ravenclaw,

'Wit beyond measure is a man's greatest treasure!'"

He indicated the objects like ear trumpets.

 "These are the Wrackpurt siphons - to remove all sources of distraction from the thinker's immediate 
area. Here, "he pointed out the tiny wings, "a billywig propeller, to induce an elevated frame of 
mind. Finally, "he pointed to the orange radish, "the dirigible Plum, so as to enhance the ability 
to accept the extraordinary."

 Xenophilius strode back to the tea tray, which Hermione had managed to balance 
precariously on one of the cluttered side tables.

 "May I offer you all an infusion of Gurdyroots?" said Xenophilius. "We make it 
ourselves." As he started to pour out the drink, which was as deeply purple as beetroot juice, he 
added, "Luna is down beyond Bottom Bridge, she is most excited that you are here She ought not to 
be too long, she has caught nearly enough Plumpies to make soup for all of us. Do sit down and help 
yourselves to sugar.

 "Now," he remove a tottering pile of papers from an armchair and sat down, his 
Wellingtoned legs crossed, "how may I help you, Mr. Potter?"

 "Well," said Harry, glancing at Hermione, who nodded encouragingly, "it's about 
that symbol you were wearing around your neck at Bill and Fleur's wedding, Mr. Lovegood. We 
wondered what it meant."

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows.

"Are you referring to the sign of the Deathly Hallows?"

Chapter Twenty-One

The Tale of the Three Brothers

     Harry turned to look at Ron and Hermione. Neither of them seemed to have 
understood what Xenophilius had said either.

"The Deathly Hallows?"

     "That's right," said Xenophilius. "You haven't heard of them? I'm not surprised. Very, 
very few wizards believe. Witness that knuckle-headed young man at your brother's wedding," he nodded at 
Ron, "who attacked me for sporting the symbol of a well-known Dark wizard! Such ignorance. There is 
nothing Dark about the Hallows - at least not in that crude sense. One simply uses the symbol to reveal 
oneself to other believers, in the hope that they might help one with the Quest."

He stirred several lumps of sugar into his Gurdyroot infusion and drank some.

"I'm sorry," said Harry, "I still don't really understand."

     To be polite, he took a sip from his cup too, and almost gagged: The stuff 
was quite disgusting, as though someone had liquidized bogey-flavored Every 
Flavor Beans.

     "Well, you see, believers seek the Deathly Hallows," said Xenophilius, 
smacking his lips in apparent appreciation of the Gurdyroot infusion.

"But what are the Deathly Hallows?" asked Hermione.

Xenophilius set aside his empty teacup.

"I assume that you are familiar with 'The Tale of the Three Brothers'?"

     Harry said, "No," but Ron and Hermione both said, "Yes." Xenophilius 
nodded gravely.

     "Well, well, Mr. Potter, the whole thing starts with 'The Tale of the Three 
Brothers' ... I have a copy somewhere ..."

     He glanced vaguely around the room, at the piles of parchment and books, but 
Hermione said, "I've got a copy, Mr. Lovegood, I've got it right here."

And she pulled out The Tales ofBeedle the Bardfrom the small, beaded bag.

     "The original?" inquired Xenophilius sharply, and when she nodded, he said, 
"Well then, why don't you read it out aloud? Much the best way to make sure we all 

     "Er. . . all right," said Hermione nervously. She opened the book, and 
Harry saw that the symbol they were investigating headed the top of the page as she gave 
a little cough, and began to read.

     '"There were once three brothers who were traveling along a lonely, winding 
road at twilight -'"

     "Midnight, our mum always told us," said Ron, who had stretched out, arms 
behind his head, to listen. Hermione shot him a look of annoyance.

"Sorry, I just think it's a bit spookier if it's midnight!" said Ron.

     "Yeah, because we really need a bit more fear in our lives," said Harry before he 
could stop himself. Xenophilius did not seem to be paying much attention, but was staring out of 
the window at the sky. "Go on, Hermione."

     "In time, the brothers reached a river too deep to wade through and too 
dangerous to swim across. However, these brothers were learned in the magical arts, 
and so they simply waved their wands and made a bridge appear across the treacherous 
water. They were halfway across it when they found their path blocked by a hooded 

"And Death spoke to them -'"

"Sorry," interjected Harry, "but Death spoke to them?"

"It's a fairy tale, Harry!"

"Right, sorry. Go on."

     "And Death spoke to them. He was angry that he had been cheated out of the 
three new victims, for travelers usually drowned in the river. But Death was 
cunning. He pretended to congratulate the three brothers upon their magic, and said 
that each had earned a prize for having been clever enough to evade him.

     "'So the oldest brother, who was a combative man, asked for a wand more 
powerful than any in existence: a wand that must always win duels for its owner, a 
wand worthy of a wizard who had conquered Death! So Death crossed to an elder tree 
on the banks of the river, fashioned a wand from a branch that hung there, and gave 
it to the oldest brother.

     "'Then the second brother, who was an arrogant man, decided that he wanted 
to humiliate Death still further, and asked for the power to recall others from 
Death. So

Death picked up a stone from the river bank and gave it to the second brother, 
and told him that the stone would have the power to bring back the dead.

     "'And then Death asked the third and youngest brother what he would like. The 
youngest brother was the humblest and also the wisest of the brothers, and he did not 
trust Death. So he asked for something that would enable him to go forth from that place 
without being followed by Death. And Death, most unwillingly, handed over his own Cloak 
of Invisibility.'"

"Death's got an Invisibility Cloak?" Harry interrupted again.

     "So he can sneak up on people," said Ron. "Sometimes he gets bored of running 
at them, flapping his arms and shrieking . . . sorry, Hermione."

     '"Then Death stood aside and allowed the three brothers to continue on 
their way, and they did so talking with wonder of the adventure they had had and 
admiring Death's gifts.

"In due course the brothers separated, each for his own destination.

     "'The first brother traveled on for a week more, and reaching a distant 
village, sought out a fellow wizard with whom he had a quarrel. Naturally, with the 
Elder Wand as his weapon, he could not fail to win the duel that followed. Leaving 
his enemy dead upon the floor the oldest brother proceeded to an inn, where he 
boasted loudly of the powerful wand he had snatched from Death himself, and of how 
it made him invincible.

     "'That very night, another wizard crept upon the oldest brother as he lay, 
wine-sodden upon his bed. The thief took the wand and for good measure, slit the 
oldest brother's throat.

"And so Death took the first brother for his own.

     "'Meanwhile, the second brother journeyed to his own home, where he lived 
alone. Here he took out the stone that had the power to recall the dead, and turned 
it thrice in his hand. To his amazement and his delight, the figure of the girl he 
had once hoped to marry, before her untimely death, appeared at once before him.

     "'Yet she was sad and cold, separated from him as by a veil. Though she 
had returned to the mortal world, she did not truly belong there and suffered. 
Finally the second brother, driven mad with hopeless longing, killed himself so as 
to truly join her.

"And so Death took the second brother from his own.

     "'But though Death searched for the third brother for many years, he was never 
able to find him. It was only when he had attained a great age that the youngest brother 
finally took off the Cloak of Invisibility and gave it to his son. And the he greeted 
Death as an old friend, and went with him gladly, and, equals, they departed this 

     Hermione closed the book. It was a moment or two before Xenophilius seemed to 
realize that she had stopped reading; then he withdrew his gaze from the window and said: 
"Well, there you are."

"Sorry?" said Hermione, sounding confused.

"Those are the Deathly Hallows," said Xenophilius.

     He picked up a quill from a packed table at his elbow, and pulled a torn 
piece of parchment from between more books.

     "The Elder Wand," he said, and drew a straight vertical line upon the parchment. "The Resurrection 
Stone," he said, and added a circle on top of the line. "The Cloak of Invisibility," he finished, enclosing both 
line and circle in a triangle, to make the symbols that so intrigued Hermione. "Together," he said, "the Deathly 

     "But there's no mention of the words 'Deathly Hallows' in the story," said 

     "Well, of course not," said Xenophilius, maddeningly smug. "That is a 
children's tale, told to amuse rather than to instruct. Those of us who understand these matters, 
however, recognize that the ancient story refers to three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, 
will make the possessor master of Death."

     There was a short silence in which Xenophilius glanced out of the window. 
Already the sun was low in the sky.

"Luna ought to have enough Plimpies soon," he said quietly.

"When you say 'master of Death' -"said Ron.

     "Master," said Xenophilius, waving an airy hand. "Conqueror. Vanquisher. 
Whichever term you prefer."

     "But then ... do you mean ..." said Hermione slowly, and Harry could tell that she 
was trying to keep any trace of skepticism out of her voice, "that you believe these objects - 
these Hallows - really exist?"

Xenophilius raised his eyebrows again.

"Well, of course."

     "But," said Hermione, and Harry could hear her restraint starting to crack, 
"Mr. Lovegood, how can you possibly believe - ?"

     "Luna has told me all about you, young lady," said Xenophilius. "You are, I 
gather, not unintelligent, but painfully limited. Narrow. Close-minded."

     "Perhaps you ought to try on the hat, Hermione," said Ron, nodding toward 
the ludicrous headdress. His voice shook with the strain of not laughing.

     "Mr. Lovegood," Hermione began again, "We all know that there are such things 
as Invisibility Cloaks. They are rare, but they exist. But -"

     "Ah, but the Third Hallow is a true Cloak of Invisibility, Miss Granger! I mean 
to say, it is not a traveling cloak imbued with a Disillusionment Charm, or carrying a 
Bedazzling Hex, or else woven from Demiguise hair, which will hide one initially but fade 
with the years until it turns opaque. We are talking about a cloak that really and truly 
renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures eternally, giving constant and 
impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells are cast at it. How many cloaks have you 
ever seen like that, Miss Granger?"

     Hermione opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again, looking more 
confused than ever. She, Harry and Ron glanced at one another, and Harry knew 
that they were all thinking the same thing. It so happened that a cloak exactly 
like the one Xenophilius had just described was in the room with them at that 
very moment.

     "Exactly," said Xenophilius, as if he had defeated them all in reasoned argument. 
"None of you have ever seen such a thing. The possessor would be immeasurably rich, would he 

     He glanced out of the window again. The sky was now tinged with the 
faintest trace of pink.

     "All right," said Hermione, disconcerted. "Say the Cloak existed. . . what 
about that stone, Mr. Lovegood? The thing you call the Resurrection Stone?"

"What of it?"

"Well, how can that be real?"

"Prove that is not," said Xenophilius.

Hermione looked outraged.

     "But that's - I'm sorry, but that's completely ridiculous! How can Ipossibly 
prove it doesn't exist? Do you expect me to get hold of- of all the pebbles in the world 
and test them? I mean, you could claim that anything's real if the only basis for 
believing in it is that nobody's proved it doesn't exist!"

     "Yes, you could," said Xenophilius. "I am glad to see that you are opening your 
mind a little."

     "So the Elder Wand," said Harry quickly, before Hermione could retort, "you 
think that exists too?"

     "Oh, well, in that case there is endless evidence," said Xenophilius. "The 
Elder Wand is the Hallow that is most easily traced, because of the way in which it passes from 
hand to hand."

"Which is what?" asked Harry.

     "Which is that the possessor of the wand must capture it from its previous owner, if he 
is to be truly master of it," said Xenophilius. "Surely you have heard of the way the 
wand came to Egbert the Egregious, after his slaughter of Emeric the Evil? Of how Godelot died in 
his own cellar after his son, Hereward, took the wand from him? Of the dreadful Loxias, who took 
the wand from Baraabas Deverill, whom he had killed? The bloody trail of the Elder Wand is 
splattered across the pages of Wizarding history."

     Harry glanced at Hermione. She was frowning at Xenophilius, but she did 
not contradict him.

"So where do you think the Elder Wand is now?" asked Ron.

     "Alas, who knows?" said Xenophilius, as he gazed out of the window. "Who knows 
where the Elder Wand lies hidden? The trail goes cold with Arcus and Livius. Who can say which of 
them really defeated Loxias, and which took the wand? And who can say who may have defeated them? 
History, alas, does not tell us."

     There was a pause. Finally Hermione asked stiffly, "Mr. Lovegood, does the 
Peverell family have anything to do with the Deathly Hallows?"

     Xenophilius looked taken aback as something shifted in Harry's memory, but 
he could not locate it. Peverell. . . he had heard that name before. . .

     "But you have been misleading me, young woman!" said Xenophilius, now sitting up 
much straighter in his chair and goggling at Hermione. "I thought you were new to the Hallows 
Quest! Many of us Questers believe that the Peverells have everything -everything! - to do with the 

"Who are the Peverells?" asked Ron.

     "That was the name on the grave with the mark on it, in Godric's Hollow," said 
Hermione, still watching Xenophilius. "Ignotus Peverell."

     "Exactly!" said Xenophilius, his forefinger raised pedantically. "The sign of 
the Death Hallows on Ignotus's grave is conclusive proof!"

"Of what? "asked Ron.

     "Why, that the three brothers in the story were actually the three Peverell 
brothers, Antioch, Cadmus and Ignotus! That they were the original owners of the 

     With another glance at the window he got to his feet, picked up the tray, 
and headed for the spiral staircase.

     "You will stay for dinner?" he called, as he vanished downstairs again. 
"Everybody always requests our recipe for Freshwater Plimply soup."

     "Probably to show the Poisoning Department at St. Mungo's," said Ron under 
his breath.

     Harry waited until they could hear Xenophilius moving about in the kitchen 
downstairs before speaking.

"What do you think?" he asked Hermione.

     "Oh, Harry," she said wearily, "it's a pile of utter rubbish. This can't be 
what the sign really means. This must just be his weird take on it. What a waste of time."

"I s'pose this is the man who brought us Crumple-Horned Snorkacks," said Ron.

"You didn't believe it either?" Harry asked him.

     "Nah, that story's just one of those things you tell kids to teach them lessons, isn't 
it? 'Don't go looking for trouble, don't go pick fights, don't go messing around with stuff that's 
best left alone! Just keep your head down, mind your own business, and you'll be okay. Come to 
think of it," Ron added, "maybe that story's why elder wands are supposed to be 

"What are you talking about?"

     "One of those superstitions, isn't it? 'May-born witches will marry Muggles.' 
'Jinx by twilight, undone by midnight.' 'Wand of cider, never prosper.' You must have 
heard them. My mum's full of them."

     "Harry and I were raised by Muggles," Hermione reminded him. "We were taught different 
superstitions." She sighed deeply as a rather pungent smell drifted up from the kitchen. The one good thing about 
her exasperation with Xenophilius was that it seemed to have made her forget that she was annoyed at Ron. "I think 
you're right," she told him. "It's just a morality tale, it's obvious which gift is best, which one you'd 
choose -"

     The three of them spoke at the same time: Hermione said, "the Cloak," Ron said, "the 
wand," and Harry said, "the stone."

They looked at each other, half surprised, half amused.

     "You're supposed to say the Cloak," Ron told Hermione, "but you wouldn't need 
to be invisible if you had the wand. An unbeatable wand, Hermione, come on!"

"We've already got an Invisibility Cloak," said Harry, "And it's helped us 
rather a lot, in

case you hadn't noticed!" said Hermione. "Whereas the wand would be bound to 


"Only if you shouted about it," argued Ron. "Only if you were prat enough to go 

around waving it over your head, and singing, 'I've got an unbeatable want, 
come and

have a go if you think you're hard enough.' As long as you kept your trap shut 

-Yes, but could you keep your trap shut?" said Hermione, looking skeptical. 
"You know

the only true thing he said to us was that there have been stories about 

wands for hundreds of years."

"There have?" asked Harry.

Hermione looked exasperated: The expression was so endearingly familiar that 
Harry and

Ron grinned at each other.

"The Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, they crop up under different names 
through the

centuries, usually in the possession of some Dark wizard who's boasting about 

Professor Binns mentioned some of them, but ? oh it's all nonsense. Wands are 
only as

powerful as the wizards who use them. Some wizards just like to boast that 
theirs are

bigger and better than other people's"

"But how do you know," said Harry, "that those wants ? the Deathstick, and the Wand of Destiny ? aren't the same 
want, surfacing over the centuries under different names?" "What if they're all really the Elder Wand, made by 
Death?" said Ron. Harry laughed: The strange idea that had occurred to him was after all, ridiculous. His wand, he reminded 
himself, had been of holly, not elder, and it had been made by Ollivander, whatever it had done that night Voldemort had pursued 
him across the skies and if it had been unbeatable, how could it have been broken? "So why would you take the stone?" 
Ron asked him. "Well, if you could bring people back, we could have Sirius...Mad-Eye...Dumbledore...my parents..." 
Neither Ron nor Hermione smiled.

"But according to Beedle the Bard, they wouldn't want to come back, would they?" said Harry, thinking 
about the tail they had just heard. "I don't suppose there have been loads of other stories about a stone 
that can raise the dead, have there?: he asked Hermione. "No," she replied sadly. "I don't think 
anyone except Mr. Lovegood could kid themselves that's possible. Beedle probably took the idea from the Sorcerer's 
Stone; you know, instead of a stone to make you immortal, a stone to reverse death." The smell from the 
kitchen was getting stronger. It was something like burning underpants. Harry wondered whether it would be 
possible to eat enough of whatever Xenophilius was cooking to spare his feelings.

"What about the Cloak, though?" said Ron slowly. "Don't you realize, he's right? I've got so 
used to Harry's Cloak and how good it is, I never stopped to think. I've never heard of one like Harry's. 
It's infallible. We've never been spotted under it ?" "Of course not ? we're invisible when we're 
under it, Ron!"

"But all the stuff he said about other cloaks, and they're not exactly ten a Knut, you know, 
is true! It's never occurred to me before but I've heard stuff about charms wearing off cloaks when 
they get old, or them being ripped apart by spells so they've got holes, Harry's was owned by his 
dad, so it's not exactly new, is it, but it's just... perfect!" "Yes, all right, but Ron, 
the stone..."

As they argued in whispers, Harry moved around the room, only half listening. 
Reaching the spiral stair, he raised his eyes absently to the next level and 
was distracted at once. His own face was looking back at him from the ceiling 
of the room above. After a moment's bewilderment, he realized that it was not a 
mirror, but a painting. Curious, he began to clime the stairs.

"Harry, what are you doing? I don't think you should look around when he's not 
here!" But Harry had already reached the next level. Luna had decorated her bedroom 
ceiling with five beautifully painted faces: Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and Neville. 
They were not moving as the portraits at Hogwarts moved, but there was a certain magic 
about them all the same. Harry thought they breathed. What appeared to be a fine golden 
chains wove around the pictures linking them together, but after examining them for a 
minute or so, Harry realized that the chains were actually one work repeated a thousand 
times in golden ink: friends... friends... friends...

Harry felt a great rush of affection for Luna. He looked around the room. There 
was a large photograph beside the bed, of a young Luna and a woman who looked 
very like her. They were hugging. Luna looked rather better-groomed in this 
picture than Harry had ever seen her in life. The picture was dusty. This 
struck Harry as slightly odd. He stared

around. Something was wrong. The pale blue carpet was also thick with dust. 
There were

no clothes in the wardrobe, whose doors stood ajar. The bed had a cold, 
unfriendly look,

as though it had not been slept in for weeks. A single cobweb stretched over 
the nearest

window across the blood red sky.

"What's wrong?" Hermione asked as Harry descended the staircase, but before he 

respond, Xenophilius reached the top of the stairs from the kitchen, now 
holding a tray

laden with bowls.

"Mr. Lovegood," said Harry. "Where's Luna?"

"Excuse me?"

"Where's Luna?"

Xenophilius halted on the top step.

"I ? I've already told you. She is down at the Botions Bridge fishing for 

"So why have you only laid that tray for four?"

Xenophilius tried to speak, but no sound came out. The only noise was the 

chugging of the printing press, and a slight rattle from the tray as 
Xenophilius's hands


"I don't think Luna's been here for weeks." said Harry. "Her clothes are gone, 
her bed

hasn't been slept in. Where is she? and why do you keep looking out of the 

Xenophilius dropped the tray. The bowls bounced and smashed Harry, Ron, and

Hermione drew their wands. Xenophilius froze his hand about to enter his 
pocket. At that

moment the printing press have a huge bank and numerous Quibblers came streaming

across the floor from underneath the tablecloth, the press fell silent at last. 

stooped down and picked up one of the magazines, her wand still pointing at Mr.


"Harry, look at this" He strode over to her as quickly as he could through all 
the clutter.

The front of the Quibbler carried his own picture, emblazoned with the words

"Undesirable Number One" and captioned with the reward money.

"The Quibbler's going for a new angle, then?: Harry asked coldly, his mind 
working very

fast. "Is that what you were doing when you went into the garden, Mr. Lovegood?

Sending an owl to the Ministry?

Xenophilius licked his lips

"They took my Luna," he whispered, "Because of what I've been writing. They 
took my

Luna and I don't know where she is, what they've done to her. But they might 
give her

back to me if I- If I--"

"Hand over Harry?" Hermione finished for him.

"No deal." said Ron flatly. "Get out of the way, we're leaving."

Xenophilius looked ghastly, a century old, his lips drawn back into a dreadful 

"They will be here any moment. I must save Luna. I cannot lose Luna. You must 


He spread his arms in front of the staircase, and Harry had a sudden vision of 
his mother

doing the same thing in front of his crib.

"Don't make us hurt you," Harry said. "Get out of the way, Mr. Lovegood."

"HARRY!" Hermione screamed.

Figures on broomsticks were flying past the windows. As the three of them 
looked away

from him. Xenophilius drew his wand. Harry realized their mistake just in time. 

launched himself sideways, shoving Ron and Hermione out of harm's way as

Xenophilius's Stunning Spell soared across the room and hit the Erumpent horn.

There was a colossal explosion. The sound of it seemed to blow the room apart.

Fragments of wood and paper and rubble flew in all directions, along with an

impenetrable cloud of thick white dust. Harry flew through the air, then 
crashed to the

floor, unable to see as debris rained upon him, his arms over his head. He heard

Hermione's scream, Ron's yell, and a series of sickening metallic thuds which 
told him

that Xenophilius had been blasted off his feet and fallen backward down the 
spiral stairs.

Half buried in rubble, Harry tried to raise himself. He could barely breathe or 
see for dust.

Half of the ceiling had fall in and the end of Luna's bead was hanging through 
the hole.

The bust of Rowena Ravenclaw lay beside him with half its face missing 
fragments of

torn parchment were floating through the air, and most of the printing press 
lay on its side,

blocking the top of the staircase to the kitchen. Then another white shape 
moved close by,

and Hermione, coated in dust like a second statue, pressed his finger to her 

The door downstairs crashed open.

"Didn't I tell you there was no need to hurry, Travers?" said a rough voice. 
"Didn't I tell

you this nutter was just raving as usual?" There was a bang and a scream of 
pain from


"No.. .no.. .upstairs.. .Potter!"

"I told you last week Lovegood, we weren't coming back for anything less than 

solid information! Remember last week? When you wanted to swap your daughter for

that stupid bleeding headdress? And the week before" ? Another bang, another 
squeal ?

"When you thought we'd give her back if you offered us proof there are Cumple" 
? Bang

-- "Headed"-bang-"Snorkacks?"

"No ? no ? I beg of you!" sobbed Xenophilius. "It really is Potter, Really!"

"And now it turns out you only called us here to try and blow us up!" roared 
the Death

Eater, and there was a volley of bangs interspersed with squeals of agony from


"The place looks like it's about to fall in, Selwyn," said a cool second voice, 
echoing up

the mangled staircase. "The stairs are completely blocked. Could try clearing 
it? Might

bring the place down."

"You lying piece of filth." shouted the wizard named Selwyn.

"You have never seen Potter in your life, have you? Thought you'd lure us here 
to kill us,

did you? And you think you'll get your girl back like this?"

"I swear...I swear...Potter's upstairs!"

"Homenum revelio." said the voice at the foot of the stairs. Harry heard 
Hermione gasp,

and he had the odd sensation something was swooping low over him, immersing his 

in its shadow.

"There's someone up there all right, Selwyn," said the second man sharply.

"It's Potter, I tell you, it's Potter!" sobbed Xenophilius. 
"Please...please...give me Luna,

just let me have Luna..."

"You can have your little girl, Lovegood," said Selwyn, "if you get up those 
stairs and

bring me down Harry Potter. But if this is a plot, if it's a trick, if you've 
got an accomplice

waiting up there to ambush us, we'll see if we can spare a bit of your daughter 
for you to


Xenophilius gave a wail of fear and despair. There were scurryings and 

Xenophilius was trying to get through the debris on the stairs.

"Come on," Harry whispered, "we've got to get out of here."

He started to dig himself out under cover of all the noise Xenophilius was 
making on the

staircase. Ron was buried the deepest. Harry and Hermione climbed, as quietly 
as they

could, over all the wreckage to where he lay, trying to prise a heavy chest of 
drawers off

his legs. While Xenophilius banging and scraping drew nearer and nearer, 

managed to free Ron with the use of a Hover Charm.

"All right." breathed Hermione, as the broken printing press blocking the top 
of the stairs

begin to tremble. Xenophilius was feet away from them. She was still white with 

"Do you trust me Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"Okay then." Hermione whispered, "give me the invisibility Cloak. Ron, you're 
going to

put it on."

"Me? But Harry -"

"Please, Ron! Harry, hold on tight to my hand, Ron grab my shoulder."

Harry held out his left hand. Ron vanished beneath the Cloak. The printing 
press blocking

the stairs was vibrating. Xenophilius was trying to shift it using a Hover 
Charm. Harry

did not know what Hermione was waiting for.

"Hold tight" she whispered. "Hold tight...any second..."

Xenophilius's paper-white face appeared over the top of the sideboard.

"Obliviate!" cried Hermione, pointing her want first into his face then at the 
floor beneath

them. "Deprimo!"

She had blasted a hole in the sitting room floor. They fell like boulders. 
Harry still

holding onto her hand for dear life, there was a scream from below, and he 
glimpsed two

men trying to get out of the way as vast quantities of rubble and broken 
furniture rained

all around them from the shattered ceiling. Hermione twisted in midair and 
thundering of

the collapsing house rang in Harry's ears as she dragged him once more into 

Chapter Twenty-Two The Deathly Hallows

     Harry fell, panting, onto grass and scrambled up at once. They seemed to 
have landed in the corner of a field at dusk; Hermione was already running in a 
circle around them, waving her wand.

"Protego Totalum... Salvio Hexia.

     "That treacherous old bleeder." Ron panted, emerging from beneath the Invisibility 
Cloak and throwing it to Harry. "Hermione you're a genius, a total genius. I can't believe we 
got out of that."

     "Cave Inimicum.. .Didn't I say it was an Frumpent horn, didn't I tell him? And 
now his house has been blown apart!"

     "Serves him right," said Ron, examining his torn jeans and the cuts to his legs, 
"What'd you reckon they'll do to him?"

     "Oh I hope they don't kill him!" groaned Hermione, "That's why I wanted the 
Death Eaters to get a glimpse of Harry before we left, so they knew Xenophilius hadn't been 

"Why hide me though?" asked Ron.

     "You're supposed to be in bed with spattergrolt, Ron! They've kidnapped Luna 
because her father supported Harry! What would happen to your family if they knew you're 
with him?"

"But what about your mum and dad?"

     "They're in Australia," said Hermione, "They should be all right. They don't 
know anything."

"You're a genius," Ron repeated, looking awed.

     Yeah, you are, Hermione," agreed Harry fervently. "I don't know what we'd do 
without you."

She beamed, but became solemn at once.

"What about Luna?"

"Well, if they're telling the truth and she's still Alive ?" began Ron.

"Don't say that, don't say it!" squealed Hermione. "She must be alive, she 

     "Then she'll be in Azkaban, I expect," said Ron. "Whether she survives the 
place, though.. .Loads don't.

     "She will," said Harry. He could not bear to contemplate the alternative. 
"She's tough, Luna, much tougher than you'd think. She's probably teaching all the inmates 
about Wrackspurts and Nargles."

     "I hope you're right," said Hermione. She passed a hand over her eyes. "I'd 
feel so sorry for Xenophilius if ?"

"?if he hadn't just tried to sell us to the Death Eaters, yeah," said Ron.

     They put up the tent and retreated inside it, where Ron made them tea. 
After their narrow escape, the chilly, musty old place felt like home: safe, 
familiar, and friendly.

     "Oh, why did we go there?" groaned Hermione after a few minutes' silence. "Harry, you 
were right, it was Godric's Hollow all over again, a complete waste of time! The Deathly Hallows... such 
rubbish...although actually," a sudden thought seemed to have struck her, "he might have made it 
all up, mightn't he? He probably doesn't believe in the Deathly Hallows at all, he just wanted to keep us 
talking until the Death Eaters arrived!"

     "I don't think so," said Ron. "It's a damn sight harder making stuff up when 
you're under stress than you'd think. I found that out when the Snatchers caught me. It was much 
easier pretending to be Stan, because I knew a bit about him, than inventing a whole new person. 
Old Lovegood was under loads of pressure, trying to make sure we stayed put. I reckon he told us 
the truth, or what he thinks is the truth, just to keep us talking."

     "Well, I don't suppose it matters," sighed Hermione. "Even if he was being 
honest, I never heard such a lot of nonsense in all my life."

     "Hang on, though," said Ron. "The Chamber of Secrets was supposed to be a myth, 
wasn't it?"

"But the Deathly Hallows can't exist, Ron!"

     "You keep saying that, but one of them can," said Ron. "Harry's 
Invisibility Cloak

     "The Tale of the Three Brothers' is a story," said Hermione firmly. "A story 
about how humans are frightened of death. If surviving was as simple as hiding under the 
Invisibility Cloak, we'd have everything we need already!"

     "I don't know. We could do with an unbeatable wand," said Harry, turning 
the blackthorn wand he so disliked over in his fingers.

"There's no such thing, Harry!"

     "You said there have been loads of wands ? the Deathstick and whatever they 
were called ?"

     "All right, even if you want to kid yourself the Elder Wand's real, what about the 
Resurrection Stone?" Her fingers sketched quotation marks around the name, and her tone 
dripped sarcasm. "No magic can raise the dead, and that's that!"

     "When my wand connected with You-Know-Who's, it made my mum and dad appear... 
and Cedric..."

     "But they weren't really back from the dead, were they?" said Hermione. "Those 
kind of?of pale imitations aren't the same as truly bringing someone back to life."

     "But she, the girl in the tale, didn't really come back, did she? The 
story says that once people are dead, they belong with the dead. But the second 
brother still got to see her and talk to her, didn't he? He even lived with her for 
a while.

     He saw concern and something less easily definable in Hermione's 
expression. Then, as she glanced at Ron, Harry realized that it was fear: He 
had scared her with his talk of living with dead people.

     "So that Peverell bloke who's buried in Godric's Hollow," he said hastily, trying to 
sound robustly sane, "you don't know anything about him, then?"

     "No," she replied, looking relieved at the change of subject. "I looked him up after I 
saw the mark on his grave; if he'd been anyone famous or done anything important, I'm sure he'd be in one of 
our books. The only place I've managed to find the name 'Peverell' Is Nature's Nobility: A Wizarding 
Genealogy. I borrowed it from Kreacher," she explained as Ron raised his eyebrows. "It lists the 
pure-blood families that are now extinct in the male line. Apparently the Peverells were one of the earliest 
families to vanish."

"Extinct in the male line?" repeated Ron.

     "It means the name died out," said Hermione, "centuries ago, in the case of the 
Peverells. They could still have descendents, though, they'd just be called something 

     And then it came to Harry in one shining piece, the memory that had stirred at the sound of 
the name "Peverell": a filthy old man brandishing an ugly ring in the face of a Ministry 
official, and he cried aloud, "Marvolo Gaunt!"

"Sorry said Ron and Hermione together.

     "Marvolo Gaunt! You-Know-Who's grandfather! In the Pensieve! With Dumbledore! 
Marvolo Gaunt said he was descended from the Peverells!"

Ron and Hermione looked bewildered.

     "The ring, the ring that became the Horcrux, Marvolo Gaunt said it had the 
Peverell coat of arms on it! I saw him waving it in the bloke from the Ministry's face, 
he nearly shoved it up his nose!"

     "The Peverell coat of arms?" said Hermione sharply. "Could you see what it 
looked like?"

     "Not really," said Harry, trying to remember. "There was nothing fancy on 
there, as far as I could see; maybe a few scratches. I only ever saw it really close up after it 
had been cracked open."

     Harry saw Hermione's comprehension in the sudden widening of her eyes. Ron 
was looking from one to the other, astonished.

"Blimey.. .You reckon it was this sign again? The sign of the Hallows?

     "Why not said Harry excitedly, "Marvolo Gaunt was an ignorant old git who lived 
like a pig, all he cared about was his ancestry. If that ring had been passed down through the 
centuries, he might not have known what it really was. There were no books in that house, and 
trust me, he wasn't the type to read fairy tales to his kids. He'd have loved to think the 
scratches on the stone were a coat of arms, because as far as he was concerned, having pure 
blood made you practically royal."

     "Yes.. .and that's all very interesting," said Hermione cautiously, "but Harry, 
if you're thinking what I think you're think ?"

     "Well, why not? Why not? said Harry, abandoning caution. "It was a stone, wasn't 
it?" He looked at Ron for support. "What if it was the Resurrection Stone?"

Ron's mouth fell open.

"Blimey ? but would it still work if Dumbledore broke ? ?"

     "Work? Work? Ron, it never worked! There's no such thing as a Resurrection 

     Hermione leapt to her feet, looking exasperated and angry. Harry you're trying 
to fit everything into the Hallows story ?"

     "Fit everything in? " he repeated. "Hermione, it fits of its own accord! I know 
the sign of the Deathly Hallows was on that stone! Gaunt said he was descended from the 

"A minute ago you told us you never saw the mark on the stone properly!"

     "Where'd you reckon the ring is now?" Ron asked Harry. "What did Dumbledore do 
with it after he broke it open?"

"But Harry's imagination was racing ahead, far beyond Ron and Hermione's...

     Three objects, or Hallows, which, if united, will make the possessor 
master of Death... Master... Conqueror... Vanquisher... The last enemy that 
shall be destroyed is death...

     And he saw himself, possessor of the Hallows, facing Voldemort, whose 
Horcruxes were no match.. .Neither can live while the other survives... Was 
this the answer? Hallows versus Horcruxes? Was there a way after all, to ensure 
that he was the one who triumphed? If he were the master of the Deathly 
Hallows, would he be safe?


     But he scarcely heard Hermione: He had pulled out his Invisibility Cloak 
and was running it through his fingers, the cloth supple as water, light as 
air. He had never seen anything to equal it in his nearly seven years in the 
Wizarding world. The Cloak was exactly what Xenophilius had described: A cloak 
that really and truly renders the wearer completely invisible, and endures 
eternally, giving constant and impenetrable concealment, no matter what spells 
are cast at it...

And then, with a gasp, he remembered?

"Dumbledore had my Cloak the night my parents died!"

His voice shook and he could feel the color in his face, but he did not care.

     "My mum told Sirius that Dumbledore borrowed the Cloak! This is why! He wanted 
to examine it, because he thought it was the third Hallow! Ignotus Peverell is buried in 
Godric's Hollow..." Harry was walking blindly around the tent, feeling as

though great new vistas of truth were opening all around him. "He's my ancestor. I'm 
descended from the third brother! It all makes sense!"

     "He felt armed in certainty, in his belief in the Hallows, as if the mere 
idea of possessing them was giving him protection, and he felt joyous as he turned 
back to the other two.

     "Harry," said Hermione again, but he was busy undoing the pouch around his 
neck, his fingers shaking hard.

     "Read it," he told her, pushing his mother's letter into her hand. "Read it! 
Dumbledore had the Cloak, Hermione! Why else would he want it? He didn't need a Cloak, he could 
perform a Disillusionment Charm so powerful that he made himself completely invisible without 

     Something fell to the floor and rolled, glittering, under a chair: He had 
dislodged the Snitch when he pulled out the letter. He stooped to pick it up, 
and then the newly tapped spring of fabulous discoveries threw him another 
gift, and shock and wonder erupted inside him so that he shouted out.

"IT'S IN HERE! He left me the ring - it's in the Snitch!"

"You ? you reckon?"

     He could not understand why Ron looked taken aback. It was so obvious, so 
clear to Harry. Everything fit, everything.. .His Cloak was the third Hallow, 
and when he discovered how to open the Snitch he would have the second, and 
then all he needed to do was find the first Hallow, the Elder Wand, and then ?

     But it was as though a curtain fell on a lit stage: All his excitement, 
all his hope and happiness were extinguished at a stroke, and he stood alone in 
the darkness, and the glorious spell was broken.

"That's what he's after."

The change in his voice made Ron and Hermione look even more scared.

"You-Know-Who's after the Elder Wand."

     He turned his back on their strained, incredulous faces. He knew it was 
the truth. It all made sense, Voldemort was not seeking a new wand; he was 
seeking an old wand, a very old wand indeed. Harry walked to the entrance of 
the tent, forgetting about Ron and Hermione as he looked out into the night, 

     Voldemort had been raised in a Muggle orphanage. Nobody could have told 
him The Tales ofBeedle the Bard when he was a child, any more than Harry had 
heard them. Hardly any wizards believed in the Deathly Hallows. Was it likely 
that Voldemort knew about them?

     Harry gazed into the darkness.. .If Voldemort had known about the Deathly 
Hallows, surely he would have sought them, done anything to possess them: three 
objects that made the possessor master of Death? If he had known about the 
Deathly Hallows, he might not have needed Horcruxes in the first place. Didn't 
the simple fact that he had taken a Hallow, and turned it into a Horcrux, 
demonstrate that he did not know this last great Wizarding secret?

     Which meant that Voldemort sought the Elder Wand without realizing its 
full power, without understanding that it was one of three.. .for the wand was 
the Hallow that could not be hidden, whose existence was best known... The 
bloody trail of the Elder Wand is splattered across the pages of Wizarding 

     Harry watched the cloudy sky, curves of smoke-gray and silver sliding over 
the face of the white moon. He felt lightheaded with amazement at his 

     He turned back into the tent. It was a shock to see Ron and Hermione 
standing exactly where he had left them, Hermione still holding Lily's letter, 
Ron at her side looking slightly anxious. Didn't they realize how far they had 
traveled in the last few minutes?

     "This is it?" Harry said, trying to bring them inside the glow of his own astonished 
certainty, "This explains everything. The Deathly Hallows are real and I've got one ? maybe 
two ?"

He held up the Snitch.

     "? and You-Know-Who's chasing the third, but he doesn't realize.. .he just 
thinks it's a powerful wand ?"

     "Harry," said Hermione, moving across to him and handing him back Lily's letter, 
"I'm sorry, but I think you've got this wrong, all wrong."

"But don't you see? It all fits

     "Not, it doesn't," she said. "It doesn 't. Harry, you're just getting carried away. 
Please," she said as she started to speak, "please just answer me this: If the Deathly Hallows 
really existed, and Dumbledore knew about them, knew that the person who possessed all of them would be 
master of Death ? Harry, why wouldn't he have told you? Why?"

He had his answer ready.

     "But you said it, Hermione! You've got to find out about them for yourself! 
It's a Quest!"

     "But I only said that to try and persuade you to come to the Lovegoods'!" cried 
Hermione in exasperation. "I didn't really believe it!"

Harry took no notice.

     "Dumbledore usually let me find out stuff for myself. He let me try my 
strength, take risks. This feels like the kind of thing he'd do."

     "Harry, this isn't a game, this isn't practice! This is the real thing, and 
Dumbledore left you very clear instructions: Find and destroy the Horcruxes! That symbol 
doesn't mean anything, forget the Deathly Hallows, we can't afford to get sidetracked 

     Harry was barely listening to her. He was turning the Snitch over and over 
in his hands, half expecting it to break open, to reveal the Resurrection 
Stone, to prove to Hermione that he was right, that the Deathly Hallows were 

She appealed to Ron.

"You don't believe in this, do you?"

Harry looked up, Ron hesitated.

     "I dunno.. I mean.. .bits of it sort of fit together," said Ron awkwardly, "But when you 
look at the whole thing..." He took a deep breath. "I think we're supposed to get rid of Horcruxes, 
Harry. That's what Dumbledore told us to do. Maybe.. .maybe we should forget about this Hallows 

"Thank you, Ron," said Hermione. "I'll take first watch."

     And she strode past Harry and sat down in the tent entrance bringing the 
action to a fierce full stop.

     But Harry hardly slept that night. The idea of the Deathly Hallows had 
taken possession of him, and he could not rest while agitating thoughts whirled 
through his mind: the wand, the stone, and the Cloak, if he could just possess 
them all...

     I open at the close.. .But what was the close? Why couldn't he have the 
stone now? If only he had the stone, he could ask Dumbledore these questions in 
person.. .and Harry murmured words to the Snitch in the darkness, trying 
everything, even Parseltongue, but the golden ball would not open...

     And the wand, the Elder Wand, where was that hidden? Where was Voldemort 
searching now? Harry wished his scar would burn and show him Voldemort's 
thoughts, because for the first time ever, he and Voldemort were united in 
wanting the very same thing.. .Hermione would not like that idea, of course.. 
.But then, she did not believe... .Xenophilius had been right, in a way.. 
.Limited, Narrow, Close-minded. The truth was that she was scared of the idea 
of the Deathly Hallows, especially of the Resurrection Stone.. .and Harry 
pressed his mouth again to the Snitch, kissing it, nearly swallowing it, but 
the cold medal did not yield...

     It was nearly dawn when he remembered Luna, alone in a cell in Azkaban, 
surrounded by dementors, and he suddenly felt ashamed of himself. He had 
forgotten all about her in his feverish contemplation of the Hallows. If only 
they could rescue her, but dementors in those numbers would be virtually 
unassailable. Now he came to think about it, he had not tried casting a 
Patronus with the blackthorn wand.. .He must try that in the morning...

If only there was a way of getting a better wand...

     And desire for the Elder Wand, the Deathstick, unbeatable, invincible, 
swallowed him once more...

     They packed up the tent next morning and moved on through a dreary shower 
of rain. The downpour pursued them to the coast, where they pitched the tent 
that night, and persisted through the whole week, through sodden landscapes 
that Harry found bleak and depressing. He could think only of the Deathly 
Hallows. It was as though a flame had been lit inside him that nothing, not 
Hermione's flat disbelief nor Ron's persistent doubts, could extinguish. And 
yet the fiercer the longing for the Hallows burned inside him, the less joyful 
it made him. He blamed Ron and Hermione: Their determined indifference was as 
bad as the relentless rain for dampening his spirits, but neither could erode 
his certainty, which remained absolute. Harry's belief in and longing for the 
Hallows consumed him so much that he felt isolated from the other two and their 
obsession with the Horcruxes.

     "Obsession?" said Hermione in a low fierce voice, when Harry was careless enough to 
use the word one evening, after Hermione had told him off for his lack of interest in locating more 
Horcruxes. "We're not the one with an obsession, Harry! We're the ones trying to do what 
Dumbledore wanted us to do!"

     But he was impervious to the veiled criticism. Dumbledore had left the 
sign of the Hallows for Hermione to decipher, and he had also, Harry remained 
convinced of it, left the Resurrection Stone hidden in the golden Snitch. 
Neither can live while the other survives...master of Death... Why didn't Ron 
and Hermione understand?

" 'The last enemy shall be destroyed is death,'" Harry quoted calmly.

     "I thought it was You-Know-Who we were supposed to be fighting?" Hermione 
retorted, and Harry gave up on her.

     Even the mystery of the silver doe, which the other two insisted on 
discussing, seemed less important to Harry now, a vaguely interesting sideshow. 
The only other thing that mattered to him was that his scar had begun to 
prickle again, although he did all he could to hide this fact from the other 
two. He sought solitude whenever it happened, but was disappointed by what he 
saw. The visions he and Voldemort were sharing had changed in quality; they had 
become blurred, shifting as though they were moving in and out of focus. Harry 
was just able to make out the indistinct features of an object that looked like 
a skull, and something like a mountain that was more shadow than substance. 
Used to images sharp as reality, Harry was disconcerted by the change. He was 
worried that the connection between himself and Voldemort had been damaged, a 
connection that he both feared and, whatever he had told Hermione, prized. 
Somehow Harry connected these unsatisfying, vague images with the destruction 
of his wand, as if it was the blackthorn wand's fault that he could no longer 
see into Voldemort's mind as well as before.

     As the weeks crept on, Harry could not help but notice, even through his 
new self-absorption, that Ron seemed to be taking charge. Perhaps because he 
was determined to make up for having walked out on them, perhaps because 
Harry's descent into listlessness galvanized his dormant leadership qualities, 
Ron was the one now encouraging and exhorting the other two into action.

     "Three Horcruxes left," he kept saying. "We need a plan of action, come 
on! Where haven't we looked? Let's go through it again. The orphanage.

     Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, the Riddle House, Borgin and Burkes, Albania, 
every place that they knew Tom Riddle had ever lived or worked, visited or 
murdered, Ron and Hermione raked over them again, Harry joining in only to stop 
Hermione pestering him. He would have been happy to sit alone in silence, 
trying to read Voldemort's thoughts, to find out more about the Elder Wand, but 
Ron insisted on journeying to ever more unlikely places simply, Harry was 
aware, to keep them moving.

     "You never know," was Ron's constant refrain. "Upper Flagley is a Wizarding 
village, he might've wanted to live there. Let's go and have a poke around."

     These frequent forays into Wizarding territory brought them within 
occasional sight of Snatchers.

     "Some of them are supposed to be as bad as Death Eaters," said Ron. "The lot 
that got me were a bit pathetic, but Bill recons some of them are really dangerous. They said on 
Potterwatch ?"

"On what?" said Harry.

     "Potterwatch, didn't I tell you that's what it was called? The program I keep 
trying to get on the radio, the only one that tells the truth about what's going on! 
Nearly all of the programs are following You-Know-Who's line, all except Potterwatch, I 
really want you to hear it, but it's tricky tuning in..."

     Ron spent evening after evening using his wand to beat out various rhythms on top of 
the wireless while the dials whirled. Occasionally they would catch snatches of advice on 
how to treat dragonpox, and once a few bars of "A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong 
Love." While he taped, Ron continued to try to hit on the correct password, 
muttering strings of random words under his breath.

     "They're normally something to do with the Order," he told them. "Bill had a 
real knack for guessing them. I'm bound to get one in the end..."

     "But not until March did luck favor Ron at last. Harry was sitting in the 
tent entrance, on guard duty, staring idly at a clump of grape hyacinths that had 
forced their way through the chilly ground, when Ron shouted excitedly from inside 
the tent.

"I've got it, I've got it! Password was ' Albus'! Get in here, Harry."

     Roused for the first time in days from his contemplation of the Deathly 
Hallows, Harry hurried back inside the tent to find Ron and Hermione kneeling 
on the floor beside the little radio. Hermione, who had been polishing the 
sword of Gryffindor just for something to do, was sitting open-mouthed, staring 
at the tiny speaker, from which a most familiar voice was issuing.

     ".. .apologize for our temporary absence from the airwaves, which was due to a 
number of house calls in our area by those charming Death Eaters."

"But that's Lee Jordan!" said Hermione.

"I know!" beamed Ron. "Cool, eh?"

     ".. .now found ourselves another secure location," Lee was saying, and I'm 
pleased to tell you that two of our regular contributors have joined me here this evening. 
Evening, boys!"


"Evening, River."

     '"River"' that's Lee," Ron explained. "They've all got code names, but you can 
usually tell ?"

"Shh!" said Hermione.

     "But before we hear from Royal and Romulus," Lee went on, "let's take a moment 
to report those deaths that the Wizarding Wireless Network News and Daily Prophet don't think 
important enough to mention. It is with great regret that we inform our listeners of the murders of 
Ted Tonks and Dirk Cresswell."

     Harry felt a sick, swooping in his belly. He, Ron, and Hermione gazed at 
one another in horror.

     "A goblin by the name of Gornuk was also killed. It is believed that 
Muggle-born Dean Thomas and a second goblin, both believed to have been traveling 
with Tonks, Cresswell, and Gornuk, may have escaped. If Dean is listening, or if 
anyone has any knowledge of his whereabouts, his parents and sisters are desperate 
for news.

     "Meanwhile, in Gaddley, a Muggle family of five has been found dead in 
their home. Muggle authorities are attributing their deaths to a gas leak, but 
members of the Order of the Phoenix inform me that it was the Killing Curse ? more 
evidence, as if it were needed, of the fact that Muggle slaughter is becoming little 
more than a recreational sport under the new regime.

     "Finally, we regret to inform our listeners that the remains of Bathilda 
Bagshot have been discovered in Godric's Hollow. The evidence is that she died 
several months ago. The Order of the Phoenix informs us that her body showed 
unmistakable signs of injuries inflicted by Dark Magic.

     "Listeners, I'd like to invite you now to join us in a minute's silence in 
memory of Ted Tonks, Dirk Cresswell, Bathilda Bagshot, Gornuk, and the unnamed, but no 
less regretted, Muggles murdered by the Death Eaters."

     Silence fell, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione did not speak. Half of Harry 
yearned to hear more, half of him was afraid of what might come next. It was 
the first time he had felt fully connected to the outside world for a long time.

     "Thank you," said Lee's voice. "And now we can return to regular contributor 
Royal, for an update on how the new Wizarding order is affecting the Muggle world."

"Thanks, River," said an unmistakable voice, deep, measured, reassuring.

"Kingsley!" burst out Ron.

"We know!" said Hermione, hushing him.

     "Muggles remain ignorant of the source of their suffering as they continue to sustain 
heavy casualties," said Kingsley. "However, we continue to hear truly inspirational 
stories of wizards and witches risking their own safety to protect Muggle friends and neighbors, 
often without the Muggles' knowledge. I'd like to appeal to all our listeners to emulate their 
example, perhaps by casting a protective charm over any Muggle dwellings in your street. Many lives 
could be saved if such simple measures are taken."

     "And what would you say, Royal, to those listeners who reply that in these 
dangerous times, it should be 'Wizards first'? asked Lee.

     "I'd say that it's one short step from 'Wizards first' to 'Purebloods first,' and then to 
'Death Eaters,'" replied Kingsley. "We're all human, aren't we? Every human life is worth 
the same, and worth saving."

     "Excellently put, Royal, and you've got my vote for Minister of Magic if we ever get out 
of this mess," said Lee. "And now, over to Romulus for our popular feature 'Pals of 

     "Thanks, River," said another very familiar voice. Ron started to speak, 
but Hermione forestalled him in a whisper.

"We know it's Lupin!"

     "Romulus, do you maintain, as you have every time you've appeared on our 
program, that Harry Potter is still alive?"

     "I do," said Lupin firmly. "There is no doubt at all in my mind that his death 
would be proclaimed as widely as possible by the Death Eaters if it had happened, because it would 
strike a deadly blow at the morale of those resisting the new regime. 'The Boy Who Lived' remains a 
symbol of everything for which we are fighting: the triumph of good, the power of innocence, the 
need to keep resisting."

     A mixture of gratitude and shame welled up in Harry. Had Lupin forgiven 
him, then, for the terrible things he had said when they had last met?

"And what would you say to Harry if you knew he was listening, Romulus?"

     "I'd tell him we're all with him in spirit," said Lupin, then hesitated slightly, 
"And I'd tell him to follow his instincts, which are good and nearly always right."

Harry looked at Hermione, whose eyes were full of tears.

"Nearly always right," she repeated.

     "Oh, didn't I tell you?" said Ron in surprise. "Bill told me Lupin's 
living with Tonks again! And apparently she's getting pretty big too.

     ".. .and our usual update on those friends of Harry Potter's who are suffering 
for their allegiance?" Lee was saying.

     "Well, as regular listeners will know, several of the more outspoken supporters 
of Harry Potter have now been imprisoned, including Xenophilius Lovegood, erstwhile 
editor of The Quibbler" said Lupin.

"At least he's still alive!" muttered Ron.

     "We have also heard within the last few hours that Rubeus Hagrid" - all three of 
them gasped, and so nearly missed the rest of the sentence ? "well-known gamekeeper at 
Hogwarts School, has narrowly escaped arrest within the grounds of Hogwarts, where he is rumored to 
have hosted a 'Support Harry Potter' party in his house. However, Hagrid was not taken into 
custody, and is, we believe, on the run."

     "I suppose it helps, when escaping from Death Eaters, if you've got a 
sixteen-foot-high half brother?" asked Lee.

     "It would tend to give you an edge," agreed Lupin gravely. "May I just add that 
while we here at Potterwatch applaud Hagrid's spirit, we would urge even the most devoted of 
Harry's supporters against following Hagrid's lead. 'Support Harry Potter' parties are unwise in 
the present climate."

     "Indeed they are, Romulus," said Lee, "so we suggest that you continue to show 
your devotion to the man with the lightning scar by listening to Potterwatchl And now let's move to 
news concerning the wizard who is proving just as elusive as Harry Potter. We like to refer to him 
as the Chief Death Eater, and here to give his views on some of the more insane rumors circulating 
about him, I'd like to introduce a new correspondent. Rodent?"

     "''Rodent'?" said yet another familiar voice, and Harry, Ron, and Hermione 
cried out together:


"No - is it George?"

"It's Fred, I think," said Ron, leaning in closer, as whichever twin it was 

"I'm not being 'Rodent,' no way, I told you I wanted to be 'Rapier'!"

     "Oh, all right then, 'Rapier,' could you please give us your take on the 
various stories we've been hearing about the Chief Death Eater?"

     "Yes, River, I can," said Fred. "As our listeners will know, unless they've 
taken refuge at the bottom of a garden pond or somewhere similar, You-Know-Who's strategy of 
remaining in the shadows is creating a nice little climate of panic. Mind you, if all the alleged 
sightings of him are genuine, we must have a good nineteen You-Know-Whos running around the 

     "Which suits him, of course," said Kingsley. "The air of mystery is creating 
more terror than actually showing himself."

     "Agreed," said Fred. "So, people, let's try and calm down a bit. Things are bad 
enough without inventing stuff as well. For instance, this new idea that You-Know-Who can kill 
people with a single glance from his eyes. That's a basilisk, listeners. One simple test: Check 
whether the thing that's glaring at you has got legs. If it has, it's safe to look into its eyes, 
although if it really is You-Know-Who, that's still likely to be the last thing you ever do."

     For the first time in weeks and weeks, Harry was laughing: He could feel 
the weight of tension leaving him.

"And the rumors that he keeps being sighted abroad?" asked Lee.

     "Well, who wouldn't want a nice little holiday after all the hard work he's been 
putting in?" asked Fred. "Point is, people, don't get lulled into a false sense of 
security, thinking he's out of the country. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't, but the fact remains 
he can move faster than Severus Snape confronted with shampoo when he wants to, so don't

count on him being a long way away if you're planning to take any risks. I never 
thought I'd hear myself say it, but safety first!"

     "Thank you very much for those wise words, Rapier," said Lee. "Listeners, that 
brings us to the end of another Potterwatch. We don't know when it will be possible to broadcast 
again, but you can be sure we shall be back. Keep twiddling those dials: The next password will be 
'Mad-Eye.' Keep each other safe: Keep faith. Good night."

     The radio's dial twirled and the lights behind the tuning panel went out. 
Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still beaming. Hearing familiar, friendly voices 
was an extraordinary tonic; Harry had become so used to their isolation he had 
nearly forgotten that other people were resisting Voldemort. It was like waking 
from a long sleep.

"Good, eh?" said Ron happily.

"Brilliant," said Harry.

"It's so brave of them," sighed Hermione admiringly. "If they were found ..."

"Well, they keep on the move, don't they?" said Ron. "Like us."

     "But did you hear what Fred said?" asked Harry excitedly; now the broadcast was 
over, his thoughts turned around toward his all consuming obsession. "He's abroad! He's still 
looking for the Wand, I knew it!"


"Come on, Hermione, why are you so determined not to admit it? Vol -"


"?demort's after the Elder Wand!"

     "The name's Taboo!" Ron bellowed, leaping to his feet as a loud crack sounded 
outside the tent. "I told you, Harry, I told you, we can't say it anymore - we've got to put 
the protection back around us - quickly - it's how they find -"

     But Ron stopped talking, and Harry knew why. The Sneakoscope on the table 
had lit up and begun to spin; they could hear voices coming nearer and nearer: 
rough, excited voices. Ron pulled the Deluminator out of his pocket and clicked 
it: Their lamps went out.

     "Come out of there with your hands up!" came a rasping voice through the darkness. 
"We know you're in there! You've got half a dozen wands pointing at you and we don't care who 
we curse!"

Chapter Twenty-Three Malfoy Manor

Harry looked around at the other two, now mere outlines in the darkness. He saw Hermione 
point her wand, set toward the outside, but into his face; there was a bang, a burst of 
white light, and he buckled in agony, unable to see. He could feel his face swelling 
rapidly under his hands as heavy footfalls surrounded him. "Get up, vermin."

    Unknown hands dragged Harry roughly off the ground, before he could stop 
them, someone had rummaged through his pockets and removed the blackthorn wand. 
Harry clutched at his excruciatingly painful face, which felt unrecognizable 
beneath his fingers, tight, swollen, and puffy as though he had suffered some 
violent allergic reaction. His

eyes had been reduced to slits through which he could barely see; his glasses 
fell off as he was bundled out of the tent: all he could make out were the 
blurred shapes of four or five people wrestling Ron and Hermione outside too.

     "Get ? off- her!" Ron shouted. There was the unmistakable sound of knuckles hitting 
flesh: Ron grunted in pain and Hermione screamed, "No! Leave him alone, leave him alone!"

     "Your boyfriend's going to have worse than that done to him if he's on my list," 
said the horribly familiar, rasping voice. "Delicious girl... what a treat... I do enjoy the 
softness of the skin. ..."

     Harry's stomach turned over. He knew who this was, Fenrit Greyback, the 
werewolf who was permitted to wear Death Eater robes in return for his hired 

"Search the tent!" said another voice.

     Harry was thrown face down onto the ground. A thud told him that Ron had 
been cast down beside him. They could hear footsteps and crashes; the men were 
pushing over chairs inside the tent as they searched.

     "Now, let's see who we've got," said Greyback's gloating voice from 
overhead, and Harry was rolled over onto his back. A beam of wand light fell onto his 
face and Greyback laughed.

"I'll be needing butterbeer to wash this one down. What happened to you, ugly?"

Harry did not answer immediately.

     "I said" repeated Greyback, and Harry received a blow to the diaphragm that made him 
double over in pain, "what happened to you?"

"Stung." Harry muttered. "Been Stung."

"Yeah, looks like it." said a second voice.

"What's your name?" snarled Greyback.

"Dudley." said Harry.

"And your first name?"

"I ? Vernon. Vernon Dudley."

     "Check the list, Scabior." said Greyback, and Harry head him move sideways to look 
down at Ron, instead. "And what about you, ginger?"

"Stan Shunpike." said Ron.

     "Like 'ell you are." said the man called Scabior. "We know Stan Shunpike, 'e's 
put a bit of work our way."

There was another thud.

     "I'b Bardy," said Ron, and Harry could tell that his mouth was full of blood. 

     "A Weasley?" rasped Greyback. "So you're related to blood traitors even if 
you're not a Mudblood. And lastly, your pretty little friend ..." The relish in his voice made 
Harry's flesh crawl.

"Easy, Greyback." said Scabior over the jeering of the others.

     "Oh, I'm not going to bite just yet. We'll see if she's a bit quicker at 
remembering her name than Barny. Who are you, girly?

"Penelope Clearwater." said Hermione. She sounded terrified, but convincing.

"What's your blood status?"

"Half-Blood." said Hermione.

     "Easy enough to check," said Scabior. "But the 'ole lot of 'em look like they 
could still be 'ogwarts age -"

"We'blebt," said Ron.

     "Left, 'ave you, ginger?" said Scabior. "And you decided to go camping? And you 
thought, just for a laugh, you'd use the Dark Lords name?"

"Nod a laugh," said Ron. "Aggiden."

"Accident?" There was more jeering laughter.

     "You know who used to like using the Dark Lord's name, Weasley?" growled Greyback, 
"The Order of the Phoenix. Mean anything to you?"


     "Well, they don't show the Dark Lord proper respect, so the name's been 
Tabooed. A few Order members have been tracked that way. We'll see. Bind them up with the 
other two prisoners!"

     Someone yanked Harry up by the hair, dragged him a short way, pushed him 
down into a sitting position, then started binding him back-to-back with other 
people. Harry was still half blind, barely able to see anything through his 
puffed-up eyes. When at last the man tying then had walked away, Harry 
whispered to the other prisoners.

"Anyone still got a wand?"

"No." Said Ron and Hermione from either side of him.

"This is all my fault. I said the name. I'm sorry -"


     It was a new, but familiar voice, and it came from directly behind Harry, 
from the person tied to Hermione's left.


     "It is you! If they find out who they've got -! They're Snatchers, they're only 
looking for truants to sell for gold -"

     "Not a bad little haul for one night." Greyback was saying, as a pair of hobnailed 
boots marched close by Harry and they heard more crashes from inside the tent. "A Mudblood, a 
runaway goblin, and these truants. You checked their names on the list yet, Scabior?" he 

"Yeah. There's no Vernon Dudley un 'ere, Greyback."

"Interesting," said Greyback. "That's interesting."

     He crouched down beside Harry, who saw, through the infinitesimal gap left 
between his swollen eyelids, a face covered in matted gray hair and whiskers, 
with pointed brown teeth and sores in the corners of his mouth. Greyback 
smelled as he had done at the top of the tower where Dumbledore had died: of 
dirt, sweat, and blood.

     "So you aren't wanted, then, Vernon? Or are you on that list under a different 
name? What house were you in at Hogwarts?"

"Slytherin," said Harry automatically.

     "Funny 'ow they all thinks we wants to 'ear that." leered Scabior out of the 
shadows. "But none of'em can tell us where the common room is."

     "It's in the dungeons." said Harry clearly. "You enter through the wall. It's 
full of skulls and stuff and its under the lake, so the light's all green,"

There was a short pause.

     "Well, well, looks like we really 'ave caught a little Slytherin." said Scabior. 
"Good for you, Vernon, 'cause there ain't a lot of Mudblood Slytherins. Who's your 

     "He works at the Ministry," Harry lied. He knew that his whole story would collapse 
with the smallest investigation, but on the other hand, he only had until his face regained its 
usual appearance before the game was up in any case. "Department of Magical Accidents and 

"You know what, Greyback," said Scabior. "I think there is a Dudley in there."

Harry could barely breathe: Could luck, sheer luck, get them safely out of this?

     "Well, well." said Greyback, and Harry could hear the tiniest note of trepidation in 
that callous voice, and knew that Greyback was wondering whether he had just indeed just attacked 
and bound the son of a Ministry Official. Harry's heart was pounding against the ropes around his 
ribs; he would not have been surprised to know that Greyback could see it. "If you're telling 
the truth, ugly, you've got nothing to fear from a trip to the Ministry. I expect your father'll 
reward us just for picking you up."

"But," said Harry, his mouth bone dry, "if you just let us -"

"Hey!" came a shout from inside the tent. "Look at this. Greyback!"

     A dark figure came bustling toward them, and Harry saw a glint of silver 
to the light of their wands. They had found Gryffindor's sword.

     "Ve-e-ery nice," said Greyback appreciatively, taking it from his companion. 
"Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?"

     "It's my father's," Harry lied, hoping against hope that it was too dark for 
Greyback to see the name etched just below the hilt. "We borrowed it to cut firewood -"

'"ang on a minute, Greyback! Look at this, in the Prophet!"

     As Scabior said it, Harry's scar, which was stretched tight across his 
distended forehead, burned savagely. More clearly than he could make out 
anything around him, he saw a towering building, a grim fortress, jet-black and 
forbidding: Voldemort's thoughts had suddenly become Razor-Sharp again; he was 
gliding toward the gigantic building with a sense of calmly euphoric purpose . 
. .

     So close . . . So close . . . With a huge effort of will Harry closed his 
mind to Voldemort's thoughts, pulling himself back to where he sat, tied to 
Ron, Hermione, Dean, and Griphook in the darkness, listening to Greyback and 

'"Hermione Granger," Scabior was saying, "the Mudblood who is known to be traveling 
with 'arry Potter."

     Harry's scar burned in the silence, but he made a supreme effort to keep 
himself present, nor to slip into Voldemort's mind. He heard the creak of 
Greyback's boots as he crouched down, in front of Hermione.

"you know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you."

"It isn't! It isn't me!"

Hermione's terrified squeak was as good as a confession.

"... known to be traveling with Harry Potter," repeated Greyback quietly.

     A stillness had settled over the scene. Harry's scar was Exquisitely 
painful, but he struggled with all his strength against the pull of Voldemort's 
thoughts. It had never been so important to remain in his own right mind.

     "Well, this changed things, doesn't it?" whispered Greyback. Nobody spoke: 
Harry sensed the gang of Snatchers watching, frozen, and felt Hermi one's arm trembling 
against his. Greyback got up and took a couple of steps to where Harry sat, crouching 
down again to stare closely at his misshapen features.

     "What's that on your forehead, Vernon?" he asked softly, his breath foul 
in Harry's nostrils as he pressed a filthy finger to the taught scar.

     "Don't touch it! Harry yelled; he could not stop himself, he thought he 
might be sick from the pain of it.

"I thought you wore glasses, Potter?" breathed Greyback.

     "I found glasses!" yelped one of the Snatchers skulking in the background. 
"There was glasses in the tent, Greyback, wait -"

     And seconds later Harry's glasses had been rammed back onto his face. The 
Snatchers were closing in now, peering at him.

"It Is!" rasped Greyback. "We've caught Potter!"

     They all took several steps backward, stunned by what they had done. 
Harry, still fighting to remain present in his own splitting head, could think 
of nothing to say. Fragmented visions were breaking across the surface of his 
mind -

?He was hiding around the high walls of the black fortress?

No, he was Harry, tied up and wandless, in grave danger?

?looking up, up to the topmost window, the highest tower?

He was Harry, and they were discussing his fate in low voices?

?Time to fly . . .

"... To the Ministry?"

     "To hell with the Ministry." growled Greyback. "They'll take the credit, and we 
won't get a look in. I say we take him straight to You-Know-Who."

"Will you summon 'im? 'ere?" said Scabior, sounding awed, terrified.

     "No," snarled Greyback, "I haven't got ? they say he's using the Malfoy's place 
as a base. We'll take the boy there."

     Harry thought he knew why Greyback was not calling Voldemort. The werewolf 
might be allowed to wear Death Eater robes when they wanted to use him, but 
only Voldemort's inner circle were branded with the Dark Mark: Greyback had not 
been granted this highest honor.

Harry's scar seared again -

     -  and he rose into the night, flying straight up to the windows at the 
very top of

the tower -

". . . completely sure it's him? 'Cause if it ain't, Greyback, we're dead." "Who's in charge 
here?" roared Greyback, covering his moment of inadequacy. "I say that's Potter, and him plus his 
wand, that's two hundred thousand Galleons right there! But if you're too gutless to come along, any of you, 
it's all for me, and with any luck, I'll get the girl thrown in!"

     -  The window was the merest slit in the black rock, not big enough for a 
man to

enter. . . . A skeletal figure was just visible through it, curled beneath a 
blanket. . . . Dead,

or sleeping. . . ?

     "All right!" said Scabior. "All right, we're in! And what about the rest of 
'em, Greyback, what'11 we do with 'em?"

     "Might as well take the lot. We've got two Mudbloods, that's another ten 
Galleons. Give me the sword as well. If they're rubies, that's another small fortune 
right there."

     The prisoners were dragged to their feet. Harry could hear Hermione's 
breathing, fast and terrified.

     "Grab hold and make it tight. I'll do Potter!" said Greyback, seizing a fistful of 
Harry's hair; Harry could feel his long yellow nails scratching his scalp. "On three! One -two 
- three -"

     They Disapparated, pulling the prisoners with them. Harry struggled, 
trying to throw off Greyback's hand, but it was hopeless: Ron and Hermione were 
squeezed tightly against him on either side; he could not separate from the 
group, and as the breath was squeezed out of him his scar seared more painfully 
still -

     - as he forced himself through the slit of a window like a snake and 
landed, lightly as vapor inside the cell-like room -

     The prisoners lurched into one another as they landed in a country lane. 
Harry's eyes, still puffy, took a moment to acclimatize, then he saw a pair of 
wrought-iron gates at the foot of what looked like a long drive. He experienced 
the tiniest trickle of relief. The worst had not happened yet: Voldemort was 
not here. He was, Harry knew, for he was fighting to resist the vision, in some 
strange, fortresslike place, at the top of a tower. How long it would take 
Voldemort to get to this place, once he knew that Harry was here, was another 
matter. . . .

One of the Snatchers strode to the gates and shook them.

"How do we get in? They're locked, Greyback, I can't - blimey!"

     He whipped his hands away in fright. The iron was contorting, twisting itself out of 
the abstract furls and coils into a frightening face, which spoke in a clanging, echoing 
voice. "State your purpose!"

     "We've got Potter!" Greyback roared triumphantly. "We've captured Harry 

The gates swung open.

     "Come on!" said Greyback to his men, and the prisoners were shunted 
through the gates and up the drive, between high hedges that muffled their footsteps. 
Harry saw a ghostly white shape above him, and realized it was an albino peacock. He 
stumbled and was dragged onto his feet by Greyback; now he was staggering along sideways, 
tied back-to-back to the four other prisoner. Closing his puffy eyes, he allowed the pain 
in his scar to overcome him for a moment, wanting to know what Voldemort was doing, 
whether he knew yet that Harry was caught. . . .

     The emaciated figure stirred beneath its thin blanket and rolled over 
toward him, eyes opening in a skull of a face. . . . The frail man sat up, 
great sunken eyes fixed upon him, upon Voldemort, and then he smiled. Most of 
his teeth were gone. . . .

      "So, you have come. I thought you would. . . one day. But your journey was 
pointless. I never had it. "

"You lie!"

     As Voldemort's anger throbbed inside him, Harry's scar threatened to burst 
with pain, and he wrenched his mind back to his own body, fighting to remain 
present as the prisoners were pushed over gravel.

Light spilled out over all of them.

"What is this?" said a woman's cold voice.

"We're here to see He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!" rasped Greyback.

"Who are you?"

     "You know me!" There was resentment in the werewolf s voice. "Fenrit Greyback! 
We've caught Harry Potter!"

     Greyback seized Harry and dragged him around to face the light, forcing 
the other prisoners to shuffle around too.

     "I know 'es swollen, ma'am, but it's 'im!" piped up Scabior. "If you look a bit 
closer, you'll see 'is scar. And this 'ere, see the girl? The Mudblood who's been traveling around 
with 'im, ma'am. There's no doubt it's 'im, and we've got 'is wand as well! 'Ere, ma'am-"

     Through his puffy eyelids Harry saw Narcissa Malfoy scrutinizing his 
swollen face. Scabior thrust the blackthorn wand at her. She raised her 

"Bring them in," she said.

     Harry and the others were shoved and kicked up broad stone steps into a 
hallway lined with portraits.

     "Follow me," said Narcissa, leading the way across the hall. "My son, Draco, is 
home for his Easter holidays. If that is Harry Potter, he will know."

     The drawing room dazzled after the darkness outside; even with his eyes 
almost closed Harry could make out the wide proportions of the room. A crystal 
chandelier hung from the ceiling, more portraits against the dark purple walls. 
Two figures rose from chairs in front of an ornate marble fireplace as the 
prisoners were forced into the room by the Snatchers.

"What is this?"

     The dreadfully familiar, drawling voice of Lucius Malfoy fell on Harry's 
ears. He was panicking now. He could see no way out, and it was easier, as his 
fear mounted, to block out Voldemort's thoughts, though his scar was still 

"They say they've got Potter," said Narcissa's cold voice. "Draco, come here."

     Harry did not dare look directly at Draco, but saw him obliquely; a figure 
slightly taller than he was, rising from an armchair, his face a pale and 
pointed blur beneath white-blond hair.

     Greyback forced the prisoners to turn again so as to place Harry directly 
beneath the chandelier.

"Well, boy?" rasped the werewolf.

     Harry was facing a mirror over the fireplace, a great gilded thing in an 
intricately scrolled frame. Through the slits of his eyes he saw his own 
reflection for the first time since leaving Grimmauld Place.

     His face was huge, shiny, and pink, every feature distorted by Hermione's 
jinx. His black hair reached his shoulders and there was a dark shadow around 
his jaw. Had he not known that it was he who stood there, he would have 
wondered who was wearing his glasses. He resolved not to speak, for his voice 
was sure to give him away; yet he still avoided eye contact with Draco as the 
latter approached.

"Well, Draco?" said Lucius Malfoy. He sounded avid. "Is it? Is it Harry Potter?"

     "I can't -1 can't be sure," said Draco. He was keeping his distance from 
Greyback, and seemed as scared of looking at Harry as Harry was of looking at him.

"But look at him carefully, look! Come closer!"

Harry had never heard Lucius Malfoy so excited.

     "Draco, if we are the ones who hand Potter over to the Dark Lord, everything 
will be forgiv -"

     "Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him, I hope Mr. Malfoy?" 
said Greyback menacingly.

     "Of course not, of course not!" said Lucius impatiently. He approached 
Harry himself, came so close that Harry could see the usually languid, pale face in sharp 
detail even through his swollen eyes. With his face a puffy mask, Harry felt as though he 
was peering out from between the bars of a cage.

     "What did you do to him?" Lucius asked Greyback. "How did he get into this 

"That wasn't us."

"Looks more like a Stinging Jinx to me," said Lucius.

His gray eyes raked Harry's forehead.

     "There's something there," he whispered, "it could be the scar, stretched tight. . . 
." Draco, come here, look properly! What do you think?"

     Harry saw Draco's face up close now, right beside his father's. They were 
extraordinarily alike, except that while his father looked beside himself with 
excitement, Draco's expression was full of reluctance, even fear.

     "I don't know," he said, and he walked away toward the fireplace where his 
mother stood watching.

     "We had better be certain, Lucius," Narcissa called to her husband in her cold, clear voice. 
"Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord . . . They say this is his" - 
she was looking closely at the blackthorn wand - "but it does not resemble Ollivander's description. ... 
If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing . . . Remember what he did to Rowle and 

     "What about the Mudblood, then?" growled Greyback. Harry was nearly thrown 
off his feet as the Snatchers forced the prisoners to swivel around again, so that the 
light fell on Hermione instead.

     "Wait," said Narcissa sharply. "Yes - yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with 
Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophetl Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"

"I. . . maybe . . . yeah."

     "But then, that's the Weasley boy!" shouted Lucius, striding around the bound 
prisoners to face Ron. "It's them, Potter's friends - Draco, look at him, isn't it Arthur 
Weasley's son, what's his name - ?"

"Yeah," said Draco again, his back to the prisoners. "It could be."

     The drawing room door opened behind Harry. A woman spoke, and the sound of 
the voice wound Harry's fear to an even higher pitch.

"What is this? What's happened, Cissy?"

     Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly around the prisoners, and stopped on 
Harry's right, staring at Hermione through her heavily lidded eyes,

"But surely," she said quietly, "this is the Mudblood girl? This is Grander?"

     "Yes, yes, it's Granger!" cried Lucius, "And beside her, we think, Potter! 
Potter and his friends, caught at last!"

"Potter?" shrieked Bellatrix, and she backed away, the better to take in Harry.

"Are you sure? Well then, the Dark Lord must be informed at once!"

     She dragged back her left sleeve: Harry saw the Dark Mark burned into the 
flesh of her arm, and knew that she was about to touch it, to summon her 
beloved master-

     "I was about to call him!" said Lucius, and his hand actually closed upon 
Bellatrix's wrist, preventing her from touching the Mark. "/ shall summon him, Bella. Potter 
has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority -"

     "Your authority!" she sneered, attempting to wrench her hand from his grasp. 
"You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off 

"This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy -"

     "Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy," interjected Greyback, "but it's us that 
caught Potter, and it's us that'll be claiming the gold -"

     "Gold!" laughed Bellatrix, still attempting to throw off her brother-in-law, her 
free hand groping in her pocket for her wand. "Take your gold, filthy scavenger, what do I 
want with gold? I seek only the honor of his - of-"

     She stopped struggling, her dark eyes fixed upon something Harry could not 
see. Jubilant at her capitulation, Lucius threw her hand from him and ripped up 
his own sleeve

     "STOP!" shrieked Bellatrix, "Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark 
Lord comes now!"

     Lucius froze, his index finger hovering over his own Mark. Bellatrix 
strode out of Harry's limited line of vision.

"What is that?" he heard her say.

"Sword," grunted an out-of-sight Snatcher.

"Give it to me."

"It's not yours, missus, it's mine, I reckon I found it."

     There was a bang and a flash of red light; Harry knew that the Snatcher 
had been Stunned. There was a roar of anger from his fellows: Scabior drew his 

"What d'you think you're playing at, woman?"

"Stupefy?' she screamed, "Stupefy?'

     They were no match for her, even thought there were four of them against 
one of her: She was a witch, as Harry knew, with prodigious skill and no 
conscience. They fell where they stood, all except Greyback, who had been 
forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched. Out of the corners of 
his eyes Harry saw Bellatrix bearing down upon the werewolf, the sword of 
Gryffindor gripped tightly in her hand, her face waxen.

     "Where did you get this sword?" she whispered to Greyback as she pulled 
his wand out of his unresisting grip.

     "How dare you?" he snarled, his mouth the only thing that could move as he was 
forced to gaze up at her. He bared his pointed teeth. "Release me, woman!"

     "Where did you find this sword?" she repeated, brandishing it in his face, 
"Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!"

"It was in their tent," rasped Greyback. "Release me, I say!"

     She waved her wand, and the werewolf sprang to his feet, but appeared too 
wary to approach her. He prowled behind an armchair, his filthy curved nails 
clutching its back.

     "Draco, move this scum outside," said Bellatrix, indicating the unconscious men. 
"If you haven't got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me."

     "Don't you dare speak to Draco like -" said Narcissa furiously, but 
Bellatrix screamed.

     "Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We 
have a very serious problem!"

     She stood, panting slightly, looking down at the sword, examining its 
hilt. Then she turned to look at the silent prisoners.

     "If it is indeed Potter, he must not be harmed," she muttered, more to herself than 
to the others. "The Dark Lord wishes to dispose of Potter himself. . . . But if he finds 
out... I must... I must know. . . ."

She turned back to her sister again.

"The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!"

"This is my house, Bella, you don't give orders in my -"

    "Do it! You have no idea of the danger we're in!" shrieked Bellatrix. She 
looked frightening, mad; a thin stream of fire issued from her wand and burned a hole in 
the carpet.

Narcissa hesitated for a moment, then addressed the werewolf.

"Take these prisoners down to the cellar, Greyback."

"Wait," said Bellatrix sharply. "All except. . . . except for the Mudblood."

Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure.

"No!" shouted Ron. "You can have me, keep me!"

Bellatrix hit him across the face: the blow echoed around the room.

     "If she dies under questioning, I'll take you next," she said. "Blood traitor 
is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but 
do nothing more to them - yet."

     She threw Greyback's wand back to him, then took a short silver knife from 
under her robes. She cut Hermione free from the other prisoners, then dragged 
her by the hair into the middle of the room, while Greyback forced the rest of 
them to shuffle across to another door, into a dark passageway, his wand held 
out in front of him, projecting an invisible and irresistible force.

     "Reckon she'll let me have a bit of the girl when she's finished with her?" Greyback 
crooned as he forced them along the corridor. "I'd say I'll get a bite or two, wouldn't you, 

     Harry could feel Ron shaking. They were forced down a steep flight of 
stairs, still tied back-to-back and in danger of slipping and breaking their 
necks at any moment. At the bottom was a heavy door. Greyback unlocked it with 
a tap of his wand, then forced them into a dank and musty room and left them in 
total darkness. The echoing bang of the slammed cellar door had not died away 
before there was a terrible, drawn out scream from directly above them.

     "HERMIONE!" Ron bellowed, and he started to writhe and struggle against the ropes 
tying them together, so that Harry staggered. "HERMIONE!"

"Be quiet!" Harry said. "Shut up. Ron, we need to work out a way -"


"We need a plan, stop yelling - we need to get these ropes off-"

"Harry?" came a whisper through the darkness. "Ron? Is that you?"

     Ron stopped shouting. There was a sound of movement close by them, then 
Harry saw a shadow moving closer.

"Harry? Ron?"


"Yes, it's me! Oh no, I didn't want you to be caught!"

"Luna, can you help us get these ropes off?" said Harry.

     "Oh yes, I expect so. . . . There's an old nail we use if we need to break 
anything. . . . Just a moment. . ."

     Hermione screamed again from overhead, and they could hear Bellatrix screaming too, 
but her words were inaudible, for Ron shouted again, "HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

     "Mr. Ollivander?" Harry could hear Luna saying. "Mr. Ollivander, have you got 
the nail? If you just move over a little bit... I think it was beside the water jug."

She was back within seconds.

"You'll need to stay still," she said.

     Harry could feel her digging at the rope's tough fibers to work the knots 
free. From upstairs they heard Bellatrix's voice.

"I'm going to ask you again! Where did you get this sword? Where?"

     "We found it - we found it - PLEASE!" Hermione screamed again; Ron 
struggled harder than ever, and the rusty nail slipped onto Harry's wrist.

"Ron, please stay still!" Luna whispered. "I can't see what I'm doing -"

     "My pocket!" said Ron, "In my pocket, there's a Deluminator, and it's full of 

     A few seconds later, there was a click, and the luminescent spheres the 
Deluminator had sucked from the lamps in the tent flew into the cellar: Unable 
to rejoin their sources, they simply hung there, like tiny suns, flooding the 
underground room with light. Harry saw Luna, all eyes in her white face, and 
the motionless figure of Ollivander the wandmaker, curled up on the floor in 
the corner. Craning around, he caught sight of their fellow prisoners: Dean and 
Griphook the goblin, who seemed barely conscious, kept standing by the ropes 
that bound him to the humans.

     "Oh, that's much easier, thanks, Ron," said Luna, and she began hacking at their 
bindings again. "Hello, Dean!"

From above came Bellatrix's voice.

     "You're lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my 
vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truthV

Another terrible scream-


     "What else did you take? What else have you got? Tel me the truth or, I swear, 
I shall run you through with this knife!"


     Harry felt the ropes fall away and turned, rubbing his wrists, to see Ron running 
around the cellar, looking up at the low ceiling, searching for a trapdoor. Dean, his 
face bruised and bloody, said "Thanks" to Luna and stood there, shivering, but 
Griphook sank onto the cellar floor, looking groggy and disoriented, many welts across 
his swarthy face.

Ron was now trying to Disapparate without a wand.

     "There's no way out, Ron," said Luna, watching his fruitless efforts. "The 
cellar is completely escape-proof I tried, at first. Mr. Ollivander has been here for a long time, 
he's tried everything."

     Hermione was screaming again: The sound went through Harry like physical 
pain. Barely conscious of the fierce prickling of his scar, he too started to 
run around the cellar, feeling the walls for he hardly knew what, knowing in 
his heart that it was useless.

"What else did you take, what else? ANSWER ME! CRUCIO!"

     Hermione's screams echoed off the walls upstairs, Ron was half sobbing as 
he pounded the walls with his fists, and Harry in utter desperation seized 
Hagrid's pouch from around his neck and groped inside it: He pulled out 
Dumbledore's Snitch and shook it, hoping for he did not know what - nothing 
happened - he waved the broken halves of the phoenix wand, but they were 
lifeless - the mirror fragment fell sparkling to the floor, and he saw a gleam 
of brightest blue -

Dumbledore's eye was gazing at him out of the mirror.

     "Help us!" he yelled at it in mad desperation. "We're in the cellar of Malfoy 
Manor, help us!"

The eye blinked and was gone.

     Harry was not even sure that it had really been there. He tilted the shard of mirror 
this way and that, and saw nothing reflected there but the walls and ceiling of their 
prison, and upstairs Hermione was screaming worse than ever, and next to him Ron was 
bellowing, "HERMIONE! HERMIONE!"

     "How did you get into my vault?" they heard Bellatrix scream. "Did that dirty 
little goblin in the cellar help you?"

     "We only met him tonight!" Hermione sobbed. "We've never been inside your 
vault. ... It isn't the real sword! It's a copy, just a copy!"

"A copy?" screeched Bellatrix. "Oh, a likely story!"

     "But we can find out easily!" came Lucius's voice. "Draco, fetch the goblin, he 
can tell us whether the sword is real or not!"

Harry dashed across the cellar to where Griphook was huddled on the floor.

     "Griphook," he whispered into the goblin's pointed ear, "you must tell them 
that sword's a fake, they mustn't know it's the real one, Griphook, please -"

     He could hear someone scuttling own the cellar steps; next moment, Draco's 
shaking voice spoke from behind the door.

"Stand back. Line up against the back wall. Don't try anything, or I'll kill 

     They did as they were bidden; as the lock turned, Ron clicked the 
Deluminator and the lights whisked back into his pocket, restoring the cellar's 
darkness. The door flew open; Malfoy marched inside, wand held out in front of 
him, pale and determined. He seized the little goblin by the arm and backed out 
again, dragging Griphook with him. The door slammed shut and at the same moment 
a loud crack echoed inside the cellar.

     Ron clicked the Deluminator. Three balls of light flew back into the air 
from his pocket, revealing Dobby the house-elf, who had just Apparated into 
their midst.

"DOB - !"

     Harry hit Ron on the arm to stop him shouting, and Ron looked terrified at 
his mistake. Footsteps crossed the ceiling overhead: Draco marching Griphook to 

     Dobby's enormous, tennis-ball shaped eyes were wide; he was trembling from 
his feet to the tips of his ears. He was back in the home of his old masters, 
and it was clear that he was petrified.

     "Harry Potter," he squeaked in the tiniest quiver of a voice, "Dobby has come 
to rescue you."

"But how did you - ?"

     An awful scream drowned Harry's words: Hermione was being tortured again. 
He cut to the essentials.

     "You can Disapparate out of this cellar?" he asked Dobby, who nodded, his 
ears flapping.

"And you can take humans with you?"

Dobby nodded again.

     "Right. Dobby, I want you to grab Luna, Dean, and Mr. Ollivander, and take them 
- take them to -"

"Bill and Fleur's," said Ron. "Shell Cottage on the outskirts of Tinworth!"

The elf nodded for a third time.

"And then come back," said Harry. "Can you do that, Dobby?"

     "Of course, Harry Potter," whispered the little elf. He hurried over to 
Mr. Ollivander, who appeared to be barely conscious. He took one of the wandmaker's hands 
in his own, then held out the other to Luna and Dean, neither of whom moved.

"Harry, we want to help you!" Luna whispered.

"We can't leave you here," said Dean.

"Go, both of you! We'll see you at Bill and Fleur's."

     As Harry spoke, his scar burned worse than ever, and for a few seconds he 
looked down, not upon the wandmaker, but on another man who was just as old, 
just as thin, but laughing scornfully.

      "Kill me, then. Voldemort, I welcome death! But my death will not bring you 
what you seek. . . . There is so much you do not understand. . . "

     He felt Voldemort's fury, but as Hermione screamed again he shut it out, 
returning to the cellar and the horror of his own present.

"Go!" Harry beseeched to Luna and Dean. "Go! We'll follow, just go!"

     They caught hold of the elf s outstretched fingers. There was another loud 
crack, and Dobby, Luna, Dean, and Ollivander vanished.

     "What was that?" shouted Lucius Malfoy from over their heads. "Did you hear 
that? What was that noise in the cellar?"

Harry and Ron stared at each other.

"Draco - no, call Wormtail! Make him go and check!"

     Footsteps crossed the room overhead, then there was silence. Harry knew 
that the people in the drawing room were listening for more noises from the 

     "We're going to have to try and tackle him," he whispered to Ron. They had no 
choice: The moment anyone entered the room and saw the absence of three prisoners, they were lost. 
"Leave the lights on," Harry added, and as they heard someone descending the steps 
outside the door, they backed against the wall on either side of it.

     "Stand back," came Wormtail's voice. "Stand away from the door. I'm coming 

The door flew open. For a split second Wormtail gazed into the apparently empty 
cellar, ablaze with light from the three miniature suns floating in midair. 
Then Harry and Ron launched themselves upon him. Ron seized Wormtail's wand arm 
and forced it upwards. Harry slapped a hand to his mouth, muffling his voice. 
Silently they struggled: Wormtail's wand emitted sparks; his silver hand closed 
around Harry's throat.

"What is it, Wormtail?" called Lucius Malfoy from above.

     "Nothing!" Ron called back, in a passable imitation of Wormtail's wheezy voice. 
"All fine!"

Harry could barely breathe.

     "You're going to kill me?" Harry choked, attempting to prise off the metal fingers. 
"After I saved your life? You owe me, Wormtail!"

     The silver fingers slackened. Harry had not expected it: He wrenched 
himself free, astonished, keeping his hand over Wormtail's mouth. He saw the 
ratlike man's small watery eyes widen with fear and surprise: He seemed just as 
shocked as Harry at what his hand had done, at the tiny, merciful impulse it 
had betrayed, and he continued to struggle more powerfully, as though to undo 
that moment of weakness.

     "And we'll have that," whispered Ron, tugging Wormtail's wand from his 
other hand.

     Wandless, helpless, Pettigrew's pupils dilated in terror. His eyes had 
slid from Harry's face to something else. His own silver fingers were moving 
inexorably toward his own throat.

"No -"

     Without pausing to think, Harry tried to drag back the hand, but there was 
no stopping it. The silver tool that Voldemort had given his most cowardly 
servant had turned upon its disarmed and useless owner; Pettigrew was reaping 
his reward for his hesitation, his moment of pity; he was being strangled 
before their eyes.


     Ron had released Wormtail too, and together he and Harry tried to pull the 
crushing metal fingers from around Wormtail's throat, but it was no use. 
Pettigrew was turning blue.

     "Relashio!" said Ron, pointing the wand at the silver hand, but nothing 
happened; Pettigrew dropped to his knees, and at the same moment, Hermione gave a 
dreadful scream from overhead. Wormtail's eyes rolled upward in his purple face; he gave 
a last twitch, and was still.

     Harry and Ron looked at each other, then leaving Wormtail's body on the 
floor behind them, ran up the stairs and back into the shadowy passageway 
leading to the drawing room. Cautiously they crept along it until they reached 
the drawing room door, which was ajar. Now they had a clear view of Bellatrix 
looking down at Griphook, who was holding Gryffindor's sword in his 
long-fingered hands. Hermione was lying at Bellatrix's feet. She was barely 

"Well?" Bellatrix said to Griphook. "Is it the true sword?"

Harry waited, holding his breath, fighting against the prickling of his scar.

"No," said Griphook. "It is a fake."

"Are you sure?" panted Bellatrix. "Quite sure?"

"Yes," said the goblin.

Relief broke across her face, all tension drained from it.

     "Good," she said, and with a casual flick of her wand she slashed another deep cut into the 
goblin's face, and he dropped with a yell at her feet. She kicked him aside. "And now," she said in 
a voice that burst with triumph, "we call the Dark Lord!"

And she pushed back her sleeve and touched her forefinger to the Dark Mark.

     At once, Harry's scar felt as though it had split open again. His true 
surroundings vanished: He was Voldemort, and the skeletal wizard before him was 

toothlessly at him; he was enraged at the summons he felt - he had warned them, 
he had told them to summon him for nothing less than Potter. If they were 
mistaken . . .

     "Kill me, then!" demanded the old man. "You will not win, you cannot win! That 
wand will never, ever be yours - "

     And Voldemort's fury broke: A burst of green light filled the prison room 
and the frail old body was lifted from its hard bed and then fell back, 
lifeless, and Voldemort returned to the window, his wrath barely controllable. 
. . . They would suffer his retribution if they had no good reason for calling 
him back. . . .

     "And I think," said Bellatrix's voice, "we can dispose of the Mudblood. 
Greyback, take her if you want her."


     Ron had burst into the drawing room; Bellatrix looked around, shocked; she 
turned her wand to face Ron instead -

     "Expelliarmus!" he roared, pointing Wormtail's wand at Bellatrix, and hers flew into 
the air and was caught by Harry, who had sprinted after Ron. Lucius, Narcissa, Draco and Greyback 
wheeled about; Harry yelled, "Stupefy!" and Lucius Malfoy collapsed onto the hearth. Jets 
of light flew from Draco's, Narcissa's, and Greyback's wands; Harry threw himself to the floor, 
rolling behind a sofa to avoid them.


     Panting, Harry peered around the edge of the sofa. Bellatrix was 
supporting Hermione, who seemed to be unconscious, and was holding her short 
silver knife to Hermione's throat.

     "Drop your wands," she whispered. "Drop them, or we'll see exactly how filthy 
her blood is!"

     Ron stood rigid, clutching Wormtail's wand. Harry straightened up, still 
holding Bellatrix's.

     "I said, drop them!" she screeched, pressing the blade into Hermione's 
throat: Harry saw beads of blood appear there.

     "All right!" he shouted, and he dropped Bellatrix's wand onto the floor at 
his feet, Ron did the same with Wormtail's. Both raised their hands to shoulder height.

     "Good!" she leered. "Draco, pick them up! The Dark Lord is coming, Harry 
Potter! Your death approaches!"

     Harry knew it; his scar was bursting with the pain of it, and he could 
feel Voldemort flying through the sky from far away, over a dark and stormy 
sea, and soon he would be close enough to Apparate to them, and Harry could see 
no way out.

     "Now," said Bellatrix softly, as Draco hurried back to her with the wands. 
"Cissy, I think we ought to tie these little heroes up again, while Greyback takes care of 
Miss Mudblood. I am sure the Dark Lord will not begrudge you the girl, Greyback, after what you 
have done tonight."

     At the last word there was a peculiar grinding noise from above. All of 
them looked upward in time to see the crystal chandelier tremble; then, with a 
creak and an ominous jingling, it began to fall. Bellatrix was directly beneath 
it; dropping Hermione, she threw herself aside with a scream. The chandelier 
crashed to the floor in an explosion of crystal and chains, falling on top of 
Hermione and the goblin, who still clutched the sword of Gryffindor. Glittering 
shards of crystal flew in all directions; Draco doubled over, his hands 
covering his bloody face.

     As Ron ran to pull Hermione out of the wreckage, Harry took the chance: He leapt 
over an armchair and wrested the three wands from Draco's grip, pointed all of them at 
Greyback, and yelled, "Stupefy!" The werewolf was lifted off his feet by the 
triple spell, flew up to the ceiling and then smashed to the ground.

     As Narcissa dragged Draco out of the way of further harm, Bellatrix sprang 
to her feet, her hair flying as she brandished the silver knife; but Narcissa 
had directed her wand at the doorway.

     "Dobby!" she screamed and even Bellatrix froze. "You! You dropped the 
chandelier - ?"

The tiny elf trotted into the room, his shaking finger pointing at his old 

"You must not hurt Harry Potter," he squeaked.

     "Kill him, Cissy!" shrieked Bellatrix, but there was another loud crack, 
and Narcissa's wand too flew into the air and landed on the other side of the room.

     "You dirty little monkey!" bawled Bellatrix. "How dare you take a witch's wand, 
how dare you defy your masters?"

     "Dobby has no master!" squealed the elf. "Dobby is a free elf, and Dobby has 
come to save Harry Potter and his friends!"

     Harry's scar was blinding him with pain. Dimly he knew that they had 
moments, seconds before Voldemort was with them.

     "Ron, catch - and GO!" he yelled, throwing one of the wands to him; then 
he bent down to tug Griphook out from under the chandelier. Hoisting the groaning goblin, 
who still clung to the sword, over one shoulder, Harry seized Dobby's hand and spun on 
the spot to Disapparate.

     As he turned into darkness he caught one last view of the drawing room of 
the pale, frozen figures of Narcissa and Draco, of the streak of red that was 
Ron's hair, and a blue of flying silver, as Bellatrix's knife flew across the 
room at the place where he was vanishing -

Bill andFleur 's . . . Shell Cottage . . . Bill andFleur 's . . .

     He had disappeared into the unknown; all he could do was repeat the name 
of the destination and hope that it would suffice to take him there. The pain 
in his forehead pierced him, and the weight of the goblin bore down upon him; 
he could feel the blade of Gryffindor's sword bumping against his back: Dobby's 
hand jerked in his; he wondered whether the elf was trying to take charge, to 
pull them in the right direction, and tried, by squeezing the fingers, to 
indicate that that was fine with them. . . .

     And then they hit solid earth and smelled salty air. Harry fell to his 
knees, relinquished Dobby's hand, and attempted to lower Griphook gently to the 

"Are you all right?" he said as the goblin stirred, but Griphook merely 

     Harry squinted around through the darkness. There seemed to be a cottage a 
short way away under the wide starry sky, and he thought he saw movement 
outside it.

     "Dobby, is this Shell Cottage?" he whispered, clutching the two wands he had brought 
from the Malfoys', ready to fight if he needed to. "Have we come to the right place? 

He looked around. The little elf stood feet from him.


     The elf swayed slightly, stars reflected in his wide, shining eyes. 
Together, he and Harry looked down at the silver hilt of the knife protruding 
from the elf s heaving chest.

     "Dobby - no - HELP!" Harry bellowed toward the cottage, toward the people moving 
there. "HELP!"

     He did not know or care whether they were wizards or Muggles, friends or 
foes; all he cared about was that a dark stain was spreading across Dobby's 
front, and that he had stretched out his own arms to Harry with a look of 
supplication. Harry caught him and laid him sideways on the cool grass.

"Dobby, no, don't die, don't die -"

The elf s eyes found him, and his lips trembled with the effort to form words.

"Harry . . . Potter ..."

     And then with a little shudder the elf became quite still, and his eyes were 
nothing more than great glassy orbs, sprinkled with light from the stars they could 
not see."

Chapter Twenty-Four The Wandmaker

It was like sinking into an old nightmare; for an instant Harry knelt again beside 
Dumbledore's body at the foot of the tallest tower at Hogwarts, but in reality he was 
staring at a tiny body curled upon the grass, pierced by Bellatrix's silver knife. 
Harry's voice was still saying, "Dobby.. .Dobby..." even though he knew that 
the elf had gone where he could not call him back.

     After a minute or so he realized that they had, after all, come to the right place, for here 
were Bill and Fleur, Dean and Luna, gathering around him as he knelt over the elf. 
"Hermione," he said suddenly. "Where is she?"

"Ron's taken her inside," said Bill. "She'll be all right." Harry looked back 
down at Dobby. He stretched out a hand and pulled the sharp blade from the elf s body, then dragged 
off his own jacket and covered Dobby in it like a blanket.

     The sea was rushing against the rock somewhere nearby; Harry listened to 
it while the others talked, discussing matters in which he could take no 
interest, making decisions, Dean carried the injured Griphook into the house, 
Fleur hurrying with them; now Bill was really knowing what he was saying. As he 
did so, he gazed down at the tiny body, and his scar prickled and burned, and 
in one part of his mind, viewed as if from the wrong end of a long telescope, 
he saw Voldemort punishing those they had left behind at the Malfoy Manor. His 
rage was dreadful and yet Harry's grief for Dobby seemed to diminish it, so 
that it became a distant storm that reached Harry from across a vast, silent 

     "I want to do it properly," were the first words of which Harry was fully conscious 
of speaking. "Not by magic. Have you got a spade?" And shortly afterward he had set to 
work, alone, digging the grave in the place that Bill had shown him at the end of the garden, 
between bushes. He dug with a kind of fury, relishing the manual work, glorying in the non-magic of 
it, for every drop of his sweat and every blister felt like a gift to the elf who had saved their 

     His scar burned, but he was master of the pain, he felt it, yet was apart 
from it. He had learned control at last, learned to shut his mind to Voldemort, 
the very thing Dumbledore had wanted him to learn from Snape. Just as Voldemort 
had not been able to possess Harry while Harry was consumed with grief for 
Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate Harry now while he mourned Dobby. 
Grief, it seemed, drove Voldemort out.. .though Dumbledore, of course, would 
have said that it was love.

     On Harry dug, deeper and deeper into the hard, cold earth, subsuming his 
grief in sweat, denying the pain in his scar. In the darkness, with nothing but 
the sound of his own breath and the rushing sea to keep him company, the things 
that had happened at the Malfoys' returned to him, the things he had heard came 
back to him, and understanding blossomed in the darkness...

     The steady rhythm of his arms beat time with his thoughts. Hallows.. 
.Horcruxes.. .Hallows.. .Horcruxes.. .yet no longer burned with that weird, 
obsessive longing. Loss and fear had snuffed it out. He felt as though he had 
been slapped awake again.

     Deeper and deeper Harry sank into the grave, and he knew where Voldemort 
had been tonight, and whom he had killed in the topmost cell of Nurmengard, and 

     And he thought of Wormtail, dead because of one small unconscious impulse 
of mercy.. .Dumbledore had foreseen that.. .How much more had he known?

     Harry lost track of time. He knew only that the darkness had lightened a few degrees when he was 
rejoined by Ron and Dean. "How's Hermione?" "Better," said Ron. "Fleur's looking 
after her." Harry had his retort ready for when they asked him why he had not simply created a perfect 
grave with his wand, but he did not need it. They jumped down into the hole he had made with spades of their 
own and together they worked in silence until the hole seemed deep enough.

     Harry wrapped the elf more snuggly in his jacket. Ron sat on the edge of the grave 
and stripped off his shoes and socks, which he placed on the elf s bare feet. Dean 
produced a woolen hat, which Harry placed carefully upon Dobby's head, muffling his 
batlike ears. "We should close his eyes."

     Harry had not heard the others coming through the darkness. Bill was wearing a traveling 
cloak, Fleur a large white apron, from the pocket of which protruded a bottle of what Harry 
recognized to be Skele-Gro. Hermione was wrapped in a borrowed dressing gown, pale and unsteady on 
her feet; Ron put an arm around her when she reached him. Luna, who was huddled in one of Fleur's 
coats, crouched down and placed her fingers tenderly upon each of the elf s eyelids, sliding them 
over his glassy stare. "There," she said softly. "Now he could be sleeping."

     Harry placed the elf into the grave, arranged his tiny limbs so that he 
might have been resting, then climbed out and gazed for the last time upon the 
little body. He forced himself not to break down as he remembered Dumbledore's 
funeral, and the rows and rows of golden chairs, and the Minister of Magic in 
the front row, the recitation of

Dumbledore's achievements, the stateliness of the white marble tomb. He felt that Dobby deserved 
just as grand a funeral, and yet here the elf lay between bushes in a roughly dug hole. "I 
think we ought to say something," piped up Luna. "I'll go first, shall I?"

     And as everybody looked at her, she addressed the dead elf at the bottom of the 
grave. "Thank you so much Dobby for rescuing me from that cellar. It's so unfair 
that you had to die when you were so good and brave. I'll always remember what you did 
for us. I hope you're happy now."

     She turned and looked expectingly at Ron, who cleared his throat and said in a thick voice, "yeah.. .thanks 
Dobby." "Thanks," muttered Dean. Harry swallowed. "Good bye Dobby," he said It was all he 
could manage, but Luna had said it all for him. Bill raised his wand, and the pile of earth beside the grave rose up 
into the air and fell neatly upon it, a small, reddish mound. "D'ya mind if I stay here a moment?" He asked 
the others.

     They murmured words he did not catch; he felt gentle pats upon his back, 
and then they all traipsed back toward the cottage, leaving Harry alone beside 
the elf.

     He looked around: There were a number of large white stones, smoothed by 
the sea, marking the edge of the flower beds. He picked up one of the largest 
and laid it, pillowlike, over the place where Dobby's head now rested. He then 
felt in his pocket for a wand. There were two in there. He had forgotten, lost 
track; he could not now remember whose wands these were; he seemed to remember 
wrenching them out of someone's hand. He selected the shorter of the two, which 
felt friendlier in his hand, and pointed it at the rock.

     Slowly, under his murmured instruction, deep cuts appeared upon the rock's 
surface. He knew that Hermione could have done it more neatly, and probably 
more quickly, but he wanted to mark the spot as he had wanted to dig the grave. 
When Harry stood up again, the stone read: HERE LIES DOBBY, A FREE ELF.

     He looked at his handiwork for a few more seconds, then walked away, his 
scar still prickling a little, and his mind full of those things that had come 
to him in the grave, ideas that had taken shape in the darkness, ideas both 
fascinating and terrible.

     They were all sitting in the living room when he entered the little hall, 
their attention focused upon Bill, who was talking. The room was light-colored, 
pretty, with a small fire of driftwood burning brightly in the fireplace. Harry 
did not want to drop mud upon the carpet, so he stood in the doorway, listening.

     "... lucky that Ginny' s on holiday. If she' d been at Hogwarts they could have taken her before we reached 
her. Now we know she's safe too." He looked around and saw Harry standing there. "I've been getting them all 
out of the Burrow," he explained. "Moved them to Muriel's. The Death Eaters know Ron's with you now, they're 
bound to target the family -don't apologize," he added at the sight of Harry's expression. "It was always a 
matter of time, Dad's been saying so for months. We're the biggest blood traitor family there is."

     "How are they protected?" asked Harry. "Fidelius Charm. Dad's 
Secret-Keeper. And we've done it on this cottage too; I'm Secret-Keeper here. None of us can 
go to work, but that's hardly the most important thing now. Once Ollivander and Griphook are 
well enough, we'll move them to Muriel's too. There isn't much room here, but she's got

plenty. Griphook's legs are on the mend. Fleur's given him Skele-Gro-we could 
probably move them in an hour or?"

     "No," Harry said and Bill looked startled. "I need both of them here. I need to 
talk to them. It's important." He heard the authority of his own voice, the conviction, the 
voice of purpose that had come to him as he dug Dobby's grave. All of their faces were turned 
toward him looking puzzled.

     "I'm going to wash," Harry told Bill looking down at his hands still covered with 
mud and Dobby's blood. "Then I'll need to see them, straight away." He walked into the 
little kitchen, to the basin beneath a window overlooking the sea. Dawn was breaking over the 
horizon, shell pink and faintly gold, as he washed, again following the train of thought that had 
come to him in the dark garden...

     Dobby would never be able to tell them who had sent him to the cellar, but 
Harry knew what he had seen. A piercing blue eye had looked out of the mirror 
fragment, and then help had come. Help will always be given at Hogwarts to 
those who ask for it.

     Harry dried his hands, impervious to the beauty of the scene outside the 
window and to the murmuring of the others in the sitting room. He looked out 
over the ocean and felt closer, this dawn, than ever before, closer to the 
heart of it all.

     And still his scar prickled, and he knew that Voldemort was getting there 
too. Harry understood and yet did not understand. His instinct was telling him 
one thing, his brain quite another. The Dumbledore in Harry's head smiled, 
surveying Harry over the tips of his fingers, pressed together as if in prayer.

     You gave Ron the Deluminator... You understood him... You gave him a way 

     And you understood Wormtail too...You knew there was a bit of regret 
there, somewhere...

And if you knew them... What did you know about me, Dumbledore?

     Ami meant to know but not to seek? Did you know how hard I'd feel that? Is 
that why you made it this difficult? So I 'd have time to work that out?

     Harry stood quite still, eyes glazed, watching the place where a bright 
gold ray of dazzling sun was rising over the horizon. Then he looked down at 
his clean hands and was momentarily surprised to see the cloth he was holding 
in them. He set it down and returned to the hall, and as he did so, he felt his 
scar pulse angrily, and then flashed across his mind, swift as the reflection 
of a dragonfly over water, the outline of a building he knew extremely well.

Bill and Fleur were standing at the foot of the stairs.

"I need to speak to Griphook and Ollivander," Harry said.

"No," said Fleur. "You will 'ave to wait, ' Any. Zey are both too tired -"

     "I'm sorry," he said without heat, "but it can't wait. I need to talk to them 
now. Privately - and separately. It's urgent."

     "Harry, what the hell's going on?" asked Bill. "You turn up here with a dead 
house-elf and a half-conscious goblin, Hermione looks as though she's been tortured, and Ron's just 
refused to tell me anything -"

     "We can't tell you what we're doing," said Harry flatly. "You're in the Order, 
Bill, you know Dumbledore left us a mission. We're not supposed to talk about it to anyone 

     Fleur made an impatient noise, but Bill did not look at her; he was staring at 
Harry. His deeply scarred face was hard to read. Finally, Bill said, "All right. Who 
do you want to talk to first?"

     Harry hesitated. He knew what hung on his decision. There was hardly any 
time left; now was the moment to decide: Horcruxes or Hallows?

"Griphook," Harry said. "I'll speak to Griphook first."

     His heart was racing as if he had been sprinting and had just cleared an 
enormous obstacle.

"Up here, then," said Bill, leading the way.

Harry had walked up several steps before stopping and looking back.

     "I need you two as well!" he called to Ron and Hermione, who had been 
skulking, half concealed, in the doorway of the sitting room.

They both moved into the light, looking oddly relieved.

     "How are you?" Harry asked Hermione. "You were amazing - coming up with that 
story when she was hurting you like that -"

Hermione gave a weak smile as Ron gave her a one-armed squeeze.

"What are we doing now, Harry?" he asked.

"You'll see. Come on."

     Harry, Ron, and Hermione followed Bill up the steep stairs onto a small 
landing. Three doors led off it.

     "In here," said Bill, opening the door into his and Fleur's room, it too 
had a view of the sea, now flecked with gold in the sunrise. Harry moved to the window, 
turned his back on the spectacular view, and waited, his arms folded, his scar prickling. 
Hermione took the chair beside the dressing table; Ron sat on the arm.

     Bill reappeared, carrying the little goblin, whom he set down carefully 
upon the bed. Griphook grunted thanks, and Bill left, closing the door upon 
them all.

"I'm sorry to take you out of bed," said Harry. "How are your legs?"

"Painful," replied the goblin. "But mending."

     He was still clutching the sword of Gryffindor, and wore a strange look: 
half truculent, half intrigued. Harry noted the goblin's sallow skin, his long 
thin fingers, his black eyes. Fleur had removed his shoes: His long feet were 
dirty. He was larger than a house-elf, but not by much. His domed head was much 
bigger than a human's.

"You probably don't remember -" Harry began.

     "?that I was the goblin who showed you to your vault, the first time you ever visited 
Gringotts?" said Griphook. "I remember, Harry Potter. Even amongst goblins, you are very 

     Harry and the goblin looked at each other, sizing each other up. Harry's 
scar was still prickling. He wanted to get through this interview with Griphook 
quickly, and at the same time was afraid of making a false move. While he tried 
to decide on the best way to approach his request, the goblin broke the silence.

     "You buried the elf," he said, sounding unexpectedly rancorous. "I watched you 
from the window of the bedroom next door."

"Yes," said Harry.

Griphook looked at him out of the corners of his slanting black eyes.

"You are an unusual wizard, Harry Potter."

"In what way?" asked Harry, rubbing his scar absently.

"You dug the grave."


     Griphook did not answer. Harry rather thought he was being sneered at for 
acting like a Muggle, but it did not matter to him whether Griphook approved of 
Dobby's grave or not. He gathered himself for the attack.

"Griphook, I need to ask -"

"You also rescued a goblin."


"You brought me here. Saved me."

"Well, I take it you're not sorry?" said Harry a little impatiently.

     "No, Harry Potter," said Griphook, and with one finger he twisted the thin black 
beard upon his chin, "but you are a very odd wizard."

     "Right," said Harry. "Well, I need some help, Griphook, and you can give it to 

     The goblin made no sign of encouragement, but continued to frown at Harry 
as though he had never seen anything like him.

"I need to break into a Gringotts vault."

     Harry had not meant to say it so badly: the words were forced from him as 
pain shot through his lightning scar and he saw, again, the outline of 
Hogwarts. He closed his mind firmly. He needed to deal with Griphook first. Ron 
and Hermione were staring at Harry as though he had gone mad.

"Harry -" said Hermione, but she was cut off by Griphook.

     "Break into a Gringotts vault?" repeated the goblin, wincing a little as he shifted 
his position upon the bed. "It is impossible."

"No, it isn't," Ron contradicted him. "It's been done."

     "Yeah," said Harry. "The same day I first met you, Griphook. My birthday, seven 
years ago."

     "The vault in question was empty at the time," snapped the goblin, and Harry 
understood that even though Griphook had let Gringotts, he was offended at the idea of its defenses 
being breached. "Its protection was minimal."

     "Well, the vault we need to get into isn't empty, and I'm guessing its protection will be 
pretty powerful," said Harry. "It belongs to the Lestranges."

     He saw Hermione and Ron look at each other, astonished, but there would be 
time enough to explain after Griphook had given his answer.

     "You have no chance," said Griphook flatly. "No chance at all. If you seek 
beneath our floors, a treasure that was never yours -"

     "Thief you have been warned, beware - yeah, I know, I remember," said Harry. 
"But I'm not trying to get myself any treasure, I'm not trying to take anything for personal 
gain. Can you believe that?"

     The goblin looked slantwise at Harry, and the lightning scar on Harry's 
forehead prickled, but he ignored it, refusing to acknowledge its pain or its 

     "If there was a wizard of whom I would believe that they did not seek personal 
gain," said Griphook finally, "it would be you, Harry Potter. Goblins and elves are not 
used to the protection or the respect that you have shown this night. Not from wand-carriers."

     "Wand-carriers," repeated Harry: The phrase fell oddly upon his ears as 
his scar prickled, as Voldemort turned his thoughts northward, and as Harry burned to 
question Ollivander next door.

     "The right to carry a wand," said the goblin quietly, "has long been contested 
between wizards and goblins."

"Well, goblins can do magic without wands," said Ron.

     "That is immaterial! Wizards refuse to share the secrets of wand-lore with 
other magical beings, they deny us the possibility of extending our powers!"

     "Well, goblins won't share any of their magic either," said Ron. "You won't 
tell us how to make swords and armor the way you do. Goblins know how to work metal in a way 
wizards have never -"

     "It doesn't matter," said Harry, noting Griphook's rising color. "This isn't 
about wizards versus goblins or any other sort of magical creature -"

Griphook gave a nasty laugh.

     "But it is, it is precisely that! As the Dark Lord becomes ever more powerful, 
your race is set still more firmly above mine! Gringotts falls under Wizarding rule, 
house-elves are slaughtered, and who amongst the wand-carriers protests?"

     "We do!" said Hermione. She had sat up straight, her eyes bright. "We protest! 
And I'm hunted quite as much as any goblin or elf, Griphook! I'm a Mudblood!"

"Don't call yourself-" Ron muttered.

     "Why shouldn't I?" said Hermione. "Mudblood, and proud of it! I've got no 
higher position under this new order than you have, Griphook! It was me they chose to torture, back 
at the Malfoys!"

     As she spoke, she pulled aside the neck of the dressing gown to reveal the 
thin cut Bellatrix had made, scarlet against her throat.

     "Did you know that it was Harry who set Dobby free?" she asked. "Did you know that we've 
wanted elves to be freed for years?" (Ron fidgeted uncomfortably on the arm of Hermione's chair.) 
"You can't want You-Know-Who defeated more than we do, Griphook!"

The goblin gazed at Hermione with the same curiousity he had shown Harry.

     "What do you seek within the Lestranges' vault?" he asked abruptly. "The sword that lies 
inside it is a fake. This is the real one." He looked from one to the other of them. "I think that 
you already know this. You asked me to lie for you back there."

     "But the fake sword isn't the only thing in that vault, is it?" asked Harry. 
"Perhaps you've seen other things in there?"

     His heart was pounding harder than ever. He redoubled his efforts to 
ignore the pulsing of his scar.

The goblin twisted his beard around his finger again.

     "It is against our code to speak of the secrets of Gringotts. We are the 
guardians of fabulous treasures. We have a duty to the objects placed in our care, which 
were, so often, wrought by our fingers."

     The goblin stroked the sword, and his black eyes roved from Harry to 
Hermione to Ron and then back again.

"So young," he said finally, "to be fighting so many."

     "Will you help us?" said Harry. "We haven't got a hope of breaking in without a 
goblin's help. You're our one chance."

"I shall . . . think about it," said Griphook maddeningly.

"But -" Ron started angrily; Hermione nudged him in the ribs.

"Thank you," said Harry.

     The goblin bowed his great domed head in acknowledgement, then flexed his 
short legs.

     "I think," he said, settling himself ostentatiously upon Bill and Fleur's bed, 
"that the Skele-Gro has finished its work. I may be able to sleep at last. Forgive me. . . 

     "Yeah, of course," said Harry, but before leaving the room he leaned 
forward and took the sword of Gryffindor from beside the goblin. Griphook did not 
protest, but Harry thought he saw resentment in the goblin's eyes as he closed the door 
upon him.

"Little git," whispered Ron. "He's enjoying keeping us hanging."

     "Harry," whispered Hermione, pulling them both away from the door, into the middle 
of the still-dark landing, "are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you saying there's 
a Horcrux in the Lestranges vault?"

     "Yes," said Harry. "Bellatrix was terrified when she thought we'd been in 
there, she was beside herself. Why? What did she think we'd seen, what else did she think we might 
have taken? Something she was petrified You-Know-Who would find out about."

     "But I thought we were looking for places You-Know-Who's been, places he's done something 
important?" said Ron, looking baffled. "Was he ever inside the Lestranges' vault?"

     "I don't know whether he was ever inside Gringotts," said Harry. "He never had 
gold there when he was younger, because nobody left him anything. He would have seen the bank from 
the outside, though, the first time he ever went to Diagon Alley."

     Harry's scar throbbed, but he ignored it; he wanted Ron and Hermione to 
understand about Gringotts before they spoke to Ollivander.

     "I think he would have envied anyone who had a key to a Gringotts vault. I 
think he'd have seen it as a real symbol of belonging to the Wizarding world. And don't 
forget, he trusted Bellatrix and her husband. They were his most devoted servants before 
he fell, and they went looking for him after he vanished. He said it night he came back, 
I heard him."

Harry rubbed his scar.

     "I don't think he'd have told Bellatrix it was a Horcrux, though. He never told 
Lucius Malfoy the truth about the diary. He probably told her it was a treasured 
possession and asked her to place it in her vault. The safest place in the world for 
anything you want to hide, Hagrid told me. . . except for Hogwarts."

When Harry had finished speaking, Ron shook his head.

"You really understand him."

     "Bits of him," said Harry. "Bits . . . I just wish I'd understood Dumbledore as 
much. But we'll see. Come on - Ollivander now."

     Ron and Hermione looked bewildered but very impressed as they followed him across 
the little landing and knocked upon the door opposite Bill and Fleur's. A weak "Come 
in!" answered them.

     The wandmaker was lying on the twin bed farthest from the window. He had 
been held in the cellar for more than a year, and tortured, Harry knew, on at 
least one occasion. He was emaciated, the bones of his face sticking out 
sharply against the yellowish skin. His great silver eyes seemed vast in their 
sunken sockets. The hands that lay upon the

blanket could have belonged to a skeleton. Harry sat down on the empty bed, 
beside Ron and Hermione. The rising sun was not visible here. The room faced 
the cliff-top garden and the freshly dug grave.

"Mr. Ollivander, I'm sorry to disturb you," Harry said.

     "My dear boy," Ollivander's voice was feeble. "You rescued us, I thought we 
would die in that place, I can never thank you . . . never thank you . . . enough."

"We were glad to do it."

     Harry's scar throbbed. He knew, he was certain, that there was hardly any 
time left in which to beat Voldemort to his goal, or else to attempt to thwart 
him. He felt a flutter of panic . . . yet he had made his decision when he 
chose to speak to Griphook first. Feigning a calm he did not feel, he groped in 
the pouch around his neck and took out the two halves of his broken wand.

"Mr. Ollivander, I need some help."

"Anything. Anything." Said the wandmaker weakly.

"Can you mend this? Is it possible?"

     Ollivander held out a trembling hand, and Harry placed the two barely 
connected halves in his palm.

     "Holly and phoenix feather," said Ollivander in a tremulous voice. "Eleven 
inches. Nice and supple."

"Yes," said Harry. "Can you -- ?"

     "No," whispered Ollivander. "I am sorry, very sorry, but a wand that has 
suffered this degree of damage cannot be repaired by any means that I know of."

     Harry had been braced to hear it, but it was a blow nevertheless. He took 
the wand halves back and replaced them in the pouch around his neck. Ollivander 
stared at the place where the shattered wand had vanished, and did not look 
away until Harry had taken from his pocket the two wands he had brought from 
the Malfoys'.

"Can you identify these?" Harry asked.

     The wandmaker took the first of the wands and held it close to his faded 
eyes, rolling it between his knobble-knuckled fingers, flexing it slightly.

     "Walnut and dragon heartstring," he said. "Twelve-and-three-quarter inches. 
Unyielding. This wand belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange."

"And this one?"

Ollivander performed the same examination.

     "Hawthorn and unicorn hair. Ten inches precisely. Reasonably springy. This was 
the wand of Draco Malfoy."

"Was?" repeated Harry. "Isn't it still his?"

"Perhaps not. If you took it -"

"?I did - "

     "?then it may be yours. Of course, the manner of taking matters. Much also 
depends upon the wand itself. In general, however, where a wand has been won, its 
allegiance will change."

There was a silence in the room, except for the distant rushing of the sea.

     "You talk about wands like they've got feelings," said Harry, "like they can 
think for themselves."

     "The wand chooses the wizard," said Ollivander. "That much has always been 
clear to those of us who have studied wandlore."

"A person can still use a wand that hasn't chosen them, though?" asked Harry.

     "Oh yes, if you are any wizard at all you will be able to channel your magic 
through almost any instrument. The best results, however, must always come where there is 
the strongest affinity between wizard and wand. These connections are complex. An initial 
attraction, and then a mutual quest for experience, the wand learning from the wizard, 
the wizard from the wand."

The sea gushed forward and backward; it was a mournful sound.

"I took this wand from Draco Malfoy by force," said Harry. "Can I use it 

     "I think so. Subtle laws govern wand ownership, but the conquered wand will 
usually bend its will to its new master."

     "So I should use this one?" said Ron, pulling Wormtail's wand out of his 
pocket and handing it to Ollivander.

     "Chestnut and dragon heartstring. Nine-and-a-quarter inches. Brittle. I was 
forced to make this shortly after my kidnapping, for Peter Pettigrew. Yes, if you won it, 
it is more likely to do your bidding, and do it well, than another wand."

"And this holds true for all wands, does it?" asked Harry.

     "I think so," replied Ollivander, his protuberant eyes upon Harry's face. "You 
ask deep questions, Mr. Potter. Wandlore is a complex and mysterious branch of magic."

     "So, it isn't necessary to kill the previous owner to take the possession of a 
wand?" asked Harry.

Ollivander swallowed.

"Necessary? No, I should not say that it is necessary to kill."

     "There are legends, though," said Harry, and as his heart rate quickened, the pain 
in his scar became more intense; he was sure that Voldemort has decided to put his idea into 
action. "Legends about a wand - or wands - that have been passed from hand to hand by 

     Ollivander turned pale. Against the snowy pillow he was light gray, and 
his eyes were enormous, bloodshot, and bulging with what looked like fear.

"Only one wand, I think," he whispered.

"And You-Know-Who is interested in it, isn't he?" asked Harry.

     "I - how?" croaked Ollivander, and he looked appealingly at Ron and Hermione for 
help. "How do you know this?"

     "He wanted you to tell him how to overcome the connection between our 
wands," said Harry.

Ollivander looked terrified.

     "He tortured me, you must understand that! The Cruciatus Curse, I - I had no 
choice but to tell him what I knew, what I guessed!"

     "I understand," said Harry. "You told him about the twin cores? You said he 
just had to borrow another wizard's wand?"

     Ollivander looked horrified, transfixed, by the amount that Harry knew. He 
nodded slowly.

     "But it didn't work," Harry went on. "Mine still beat the borrowed wand. Do you 
know why that is?"

Ollivander shook his head slowly as he had just nodded.

     "I had . . . never heard of such a thing. Your wand performed something 
unique that night. The connection of the twin cores is incredibly rare, yet why your 
wand would have snapped the borrowed wand, I do not know. . . .

     "We were talking about the other wand, the wand that changes hands by murder. 
When You-Know-Who realized my wand had done something strange, he came back and asked 
about that other wand, didn't he?"

"How do you know this?"

Harry did not answer.

     "Yes, he asked," whispered Ollivander. "He wanted to know everything I could 
tell him about the wand variously known as the Deathstick, the Wand of Destiny, or the Elder 

Harry glanced sideways at Hermione. She looked flaggergasted.

     "The Dark Lord," said Ollivander in hushed and frightened tones, "had always 
been happy with the wand I made him - yes and phoenix feather, thirteen-and-a-half inches. - until 
he discovered the connection of the twin cores. Now he seeks another, more powerful wand, as the 
only way to conquer yours."

     "But he'll know soon, if he doesn't already, that mine's broken beyond 
repair," said Harry quietly.

     "No!" said Hermione, sounding frightened. "He can't know that, Harry, how could 
he --?"

     "Priori Incantatem," said Harry. "We left your wand and the blackthorn wand at 
the Malfoys', Hermione. If they examine them properly, make them re-create the spells they've cast 
lately, they'd see that yours broke mine, they'll see that you tried and failed to mend it, and 
they'll realize that I've been using the blackthorn one ever since."

     The little color she had regained since their arrival had drained from her face. Ron 
gave Harry a reproachful look, and said, "Let's not worry about that now ?"

But Mr. Ollivander intervened.

     "The Dark Lord no longer seeks the Elder Wand only for your destruction, Mr. 
Potter. He is determined to possess it because he believes it will make him truly 

"And will it?"

     "The owner of the Elder Wand must always fear attack," said Ollivander, "but 
the idea of the Dark Lord in possession of the Deathstick is, I must admit. . . formidable."

     Harry was suddenly reminded of how unsure, when they first met, of how 
much he like Ollivander. Even now, having been tortured and imprisoned by 
Voldemort, the idea of the Dark Wizard in possession of this wand seemed to 
enthrall him as much as it repulsed him.

"You - you really think this wand exists, then, Mr. Ollivander?" asked Hermione.

     "Oh yes," said Ollivander. "Yes, it is perfectly possible to trace the wand's 
course through history. There are gaps, of, course, and long ones, where it vanishes from view, 
temporarily lost or hidden; but always it resurfaces. It has certain identifying characteristics 
that those who are learned in wandlore recognize. There are written accounts, some of them obscure, 
that I and other wandmakers have made it our business to study. They have the ring of 

     "So you - you don't think it can be a fairy tale or a myth?" Hermione 
asked hopefully.

     "No," said Ollivander. "Whether it needs to pass by murder, I do not know. Its 
history is bloody, but that may be simply due to the fact that it is such a desirable object, and 
arouses such passions in wizards. Immensely powerful, dangerous in the wrong hands, and an object 
of incredible fascination to all of us who study the power of wands."

     "Mr. Ollivander," said Harry, "you told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the 
Elder Wand, didn't you?"

Ollivander turned, if possible, even paler. He looked ghostly as he gulped.

"But how - how do you ? ?"

     "Never mind how I know it," said Harry, closing his eyes momentarily as his scar 
burned and he saw, for mere seconds, a vision of the main street in Hogsmeade, still dark, because 
it was so much farther north. "You told You-Know-Who that Gregorovitch had the wand?"

     "It was a rumor," whispered Ollivander. "A rumor, years and years ago, long 
before you were born I believe Gregorovitch himself started it. You can see how good it would be 
for business; that he was studying and duplicating the qualities of the Elder Wand!"

     "Yes, I can see that," said Harry. He stood up. "Mr. Ollivander, one last 
thing, and then we'll let you get some rest. What do you know about the Deathly Hallows?"

"The - the what?" asked the wandmaker, looking utterly bewildered.

"The Deathly Hallows."

     "I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Is this still something to 
do with wands?"

     Harry looked into the sunken face and believed that Ollivander was not 
acting. He did not know about the Hallows.

     "Thank you," said Harry. "Thank you very much. We'll leave you to get some rest 

Ollivander looked stricken.

     "He was torturing me!" he gasped. "The Cruciatus Curse . . . you have no idea. 
. . ."

     "I do," said Harry, "I really do. Please get some rest. Thank you for telling 
me all of this."

     He led Ron and Hermione down the staircase. Harry caught glimpses of Bill, 
Fleur, Luna, and Dean sitting at the table in the kitchen, cups of tea in front 
of them. They all looked up at Harry as he appeared in the doorway, but he 
merely nodded to them and continued into the garden, Ron and Hermione behind 
him. The reddish mound of earth that covered Dobby lay ahead, and Harry walked 
back to it, as the pain in his head built more and more powerfully. It was a 
huge effort now to close down the visions that were forcing themselves upon 
him, but he knew that he would have to resist only a little longer. He would 
yield very soon, because he needed to know that his theory was right. He must 
make only one more short effort, so that he could explain to Ron and Hermione.

     "Gregorovitch had the Elder Wand a long time ago," he said, "I saw You-Know-Who 
trying to find him. When he tracked him down, he found that Gregorovitch didn't have it anymore: It 
was stolen from him by Grindelwald. How Grindelwald found out that Gregorovitch had it, I don't 
know - but if Gregorovitch was stupid enough to spread the rumor, it can't have been that 

     Voldemort was at the gates of Hogwarts; Harry could see him standing 
there, and see too the lamp bobbing in the pre-dawn, coming closer and closer.

     "And Grindelwald used the Elder Wand to become powerful. And at the height of 
his power, when Dumbledore knew he was the only one who could stop him, he dueled 
Grindelwald and beat him, and he took the Elder Wand."

"Dumbledore had the Elder Wand?" said Ron. "But then - where is it now?"

"At Hogwarts," said Harry, fighting to remain with them in the cliff-top garden.

     "But then, let's go!" said Ron urgently. "Harry, let's go and get it before he 

     "It's too late for that," said Harry. He could not help himself, but clutched his 
head, trying to help it resist. "He knows where it is. He's there now."

     "Harry!" Ron said furiously. "How long have you known this - why have we been 
wasting time? Why did you talk to Griphook first? We could have gone - we could still go -"

     "No," said Harry, and he sank to his knees in the grass. "Hermione's right. 
Dumbledore didn't want me to have it. He didn't want me to take it. He wanted me to get the 

"The unbeatable wand, Harry!" moaned Ron.

"I'm not supposed to . . . I'm supposed to get the Horcruxes. . . ."

     And now everything was cool and dark: The sun was barely visible over the 
horizon as he glided alongside Snape, up through the grounds toward the lake.

     "I shall join you in the castle shortly," he said in his high, cold voice. 
"Leave me now."

     Snape bowed and set off back up the path, his black cloak billowing behind 
him. Harry walked slowly, waiting for Snape's figure to disappear. It would not 
do for Snape, or indeed anyone else, to see where he was going. But there were 
no lights in the castle windows, and he could conceal himself. . . and in a 
second he had cast upon himself a Disillusionment Charm that hid him even from 
his own eyes.

     And he walked on, around the edge of the lake, taking in the outlines of 
the beloved castle, his first kingdom, his birthright. . . .

     And here it was, beside the lake, reflected in the dark waters. The white 
marble tomb, an unnecessary blot on the familiar landscape. He felt again that 
rush of controlled euphoria, that heady sense of purpose in destruction. He 
raised the old yew wand: How fitting that this would be its last great act.

     The tomb split open from head to foot. The shrouded figure was as long as 
thin as it had been in life. He raised the wand again.

     The wrappings fell open. The face was translucent, pale, sunken, yet 
almost perfectly preserved. They had left his spectacles on the crooked nose: 
He felt amused derision. Dumbledore's hands were folded upon his chest, and 
there it lay, clutched beneath them, buried with him.

     Had the old fool imagined that marble or death would protect the wand? Had 
he thought that the Dark Lord would be scared to violate his tomb? The 
spiderlike hand swooped and pulled the wand from Dumbledore's grasp, and as he 
took it, a shower of sparks flew from its tip, sparkling over the corpse of its 
last owner, ready to serve a new master at last.

Chapter Twenty-Five Shell Cottage

Bill and Fleur's cottage stood alone on a cliff overlooking the sea, its walls 

with shells and whitewashed. It was a lonely and beautiful place. Wherever 
Harry went

inside the tiny cottage or its garden, he could hear the constant ebb and flow 
of the sea,

like the breathing of some great, slumbering creature. He spent much of the 
next few

days making excuses to escape the crowded cottage, craving the cliff-top view 
of open

sky and wide, empty sea, and the feel of cold, salty wind on his face.

The enormity of his decision not to race Voldemort to the wand still scared 
Harry. He

could not remember, ever before, choosing /not/ to act. He was full of doubts, 
doubts that

Ron could not help voicing whenever they were together.

"What if Dumbledore wanted us to work out the symbol in time to get the wand?" 

if working out what the symbol meant made you 'worthy' to get the Hallows?" 
"Harry, if

that really is the Elder Wand, how the hell are we supposed to finish off 


Harry had no answers: There were moments when he wondered whether it had been

outright madness not to try to prevent Voldemort breaking open the tomb. He 
could not

even explain satisfactorily why he had decided against it: Every time he tried 

reconstruct the internal arguments that had led to his decision, they sounded 
feebler to


The odd thing was that Hermione's support made him feel just as confused as 

doubts. Now forced to accept that the Elder Wand was real, she maintained that 
it was an

evil object, and that the way Voldemort had taken possession of it was 
repellent, not to be


"You could never have done that, Harry," she said again and again. "You 
couldn't have

broken into Dumbledore's grave."

But the idea of Dumbledore's corpse frightened Harry much less than the 
possibility that

he might have misunderstood the living Dumbledore's intentions. He felt that he 
was still

groping in the dark; he had chosen his path but kept looking back, wondering 
whether he

had misread the signs, whether he should not have taken the other way. From 
time to time,

anger at Dumbledore crashed over him again, powerful as the waves slamming

themselves against the cliff beneath the cottage, anger that Dumbledore had not 

before he died.

"But /is/ he dead?" said Ron, three days after they had arrived at the cottage. 
Harry had

been staring out over the wall that separated the cottage garden from the cliff 
when Ron

and Hermione had found him; he wished they had not, having no wish to join in 

their argument.

"Yes, he is. Ron, /please" don't start that again!"

"Look at the facts, Hermione," said Ron, speaking across Harry, who continued 
to gaze at

the horizon. "The solve doe. The sword. The eye Harry saw in the mirror ?"

"Harry admits he could have imagined the eye! Don't you, Harry?"

"I could have," said Harry without looking at her.

"But you don't thing you did, do you?" asked Ron.

"No, I don't," said Harry.

"There you go!" said Ron quickly, before Hermione could carry on. "If it wasn't

Dumbledore, explain how Dobby knew we were in the cellar, Hermione?"

"I can't ? but can you explain how Dumbledore sent him to us if he's lying in a 
tomb at


"I dunno, it could've been his ghost!"

"Dumbledore wouldn't come back as a ghost," said Harry. There was little about

Dumbledore he was sure of now, but he knew that much. "He would have gone on."

"What d'you mean, 'gone on'?" asked Ron, but before Harry could say any more, a 

behind them said, '"Any?"

Fleur had come out of the cottage, her long silver hair flying in the breeze.

"'Any, Grip'ook would like to speak to you. 'E eez in ze smallest bedroom, 'e 
says 'e does

not want to be over'eard."

Her dislike of the goblin sending her to deliver messages was clear; she looked 

as she walked back around the house.

Griphook was waiting for them, as Fleur had said, in the tiniest of the 
cottage's three

bedrooms, in which Hermione and Luna slept by night. He had drawn the red cotton

curtains against the bright, cloudy sky, which gave the room a fiery glow at 
odds with the

rest of the airy, light cottage.

"I have reached my decision, Harry Potter," said the goblin, who was sitting 

in a low chair, drumming its arms with his spindly fingers. "Though the goblins 

Gringotts will consider it base treachery, I have decided to help you ?"

"That's great!" said Harry, relief surging through him. "Griphook, thank you, 
we're really

"? in return," said the goblin firmly, "for payment."

Slightly taken aback, Harry hesitated.

"How much do you want? I've got gold."

"Not gold," said Griphook. "I have gold."

His black eyes glittered; there were no whites to his eyes.

"I want the sword. The sword of Godric Gryffindor."

Harry's spirits plummeted.

"You can't have that," he said. "I'm sorry."

"Then," said the goblin softly, "we have a problem."

"We can give you something else," said Ron eagerly. "I'll bet the Lestranges 
have got

loads of stuff, you can take your pick once we get into the vault."

He had said the wrong thing. Griphook flushed angrily.

"I am not a thief, boy! I am not trying to procure treasures to which I have no 

"The sword's ours ?"

"it is not," said the goblin.

"We're Gryffindors, and it was Godric Gryffindor's ?"

"And before it was Gryffindor's, whose was it?" demanded the goblin, sitting up 

"No one's," said Ron. "It was made for him, wasn't it?"

"No!" cried the goblin, bristling with anger as he pointed a long finger at Ron. 
"Wizarding arrogance again! That sword was Ragnuk the First's, taken from him by

Godric Gryffindor! It is a      , a masterpiece of goblinwork! It belongs

with the gobl   . The sword is the price of my hire, take it or leave it!"

Griphook glared at them. Harry glanced at the other     , then said, "We need 
to discuss

this, Griphook, if that's all right. Could you give us a few minutes?"

The goblin nodded, looking sour.

Downstairs in the empty sitting room, Harry walked to the fireplace, brow 

trying to think what to do. Behind him, Ron said, "He's having a laugh. We 
can't let him

have that sword."

"It is true?" Harry asked Hermione. "Was the sword stolen by Gryffindor?"

"I don't know," she said hopelessly. "Wizarding history often skates over what 

wizards have done to other magical races, but there's no account that I know of 
that says

Gryffindor stole the sword."

"It'll be one of those goblin stories," said Ron, "about how the wizards are 
always trying

to get one over on them. I suppose we should think ourselves lucky he hasn't 
asked for

one of our wands."

"Goblins have got good reason to dislike wizards, Ron." said Hermione. "They've 

treated brutally in the past."

"Goblins aren't exactly fluffy little bunnies, though, are they?" said Ron. 
"They've killed

plenty of us. They've fought dirty too."

"But arguing with Griphook about whose race is most underhanded and violent 

going to make him more likely to help us, is it?"

There was a pause while they tried to think of a way around the problem. Harry 

out of the window at Dobby's grave. Luna was arranging sea lavender in a jam 
jar beside

the headstone.

"Okay," said Ron, and Harry turned back to face him, "how's this? We tell 
Griphook we

need the sword until we get inside the  and then he can have it. There's a fake 

these, isn't there? We switch them, and give him the fake."

"Ron, he'd know the difference better than we would!" said Hermione. "He's the 
only one

who realized there had been a swap!"

"Yeah, but we could _ca_per before he realizes ?"

He quailed beneath the look Hermione was giving him.

"That," she said quietly, "is despicable. Ask for his help, then double-cross 
him? And you

wonder why goblins don't like wizards, Ron?"

Ron's ears had turned red.

"All right, all right! It was the only thing I could think of! What's your solution, 

"We need to offer him something else, something just as valuable."

"Brilliant, I'll go and get one of our ancient goblin-made swords and you can 
gift wrap


Silence fell between them again. Harry was sure that the goblin would accept 
nothing but

the sword, even if they had something as valuable to offer him. Yet the sword 
was their

one, indispensable weapon against the Horcruxes.

He closed his eyes for a moment or two and listened to the rush of the sea. The 
idea that

Gryffindor might have stolen the sword was unpleasant to him: He had always been

proud to be a Gryffindor; Gryffindor had been the champion of Muggle-borns, the 

who had clashed with the pureblood-loving Slytherin....

"Maybe he's lying," Harry said, opening his eyes again. "Griphook. Maybe 

didn't take the sword. How do we know the goblin version of history's right?"

"Does it make a difference?" asked Hermione.

"Changes how I feel about it," said Harry.

He took a deep breath.

"We'll tell him he can have the sword after he's helped us get into that vault 
? but we'll be

careful to avoid telling him exactly /when/ he can have it."

A grin spread slowly across Ron's face. Hermione, however, looked alarmed.

"Harry, we can't ?"

"He can have it," Harry went on, "after we've used it on all of the Horcruxes. 
I'll make

sure he gets it then. I'll keep my word."

"But that could be years!" said Hermione.

"I know that, but /he/ needn't. I won't be lying... really."

Harry met her eyes with a mixture of defiance and shame. He remembered the 
words that

had been engraved over the gateway to Nurmengard: FOR THE GREATER GOOD. He

pushed the idea away. What choice did they have?

"I don't like it," said Hermione.

"Nor do I, much," Harry admitted.

"Well, I think it's genius," said Ron, standing up again. "Let's go and tell 

Back in the smallest bedroom, Harry made the offer, careful to phrase it so as 
not to give

any definite time for the handover of the sword. Hermione frowned at the floor 
while he

was speaking; he felt irritated at her, afraid that she might give the game 
away. However,

Griphook had eyes for nobody but Harry.

"I have your word, Harry Potter, that you will give me the sword of Gryffindor 
if I help


"Yes," said Harry.

"Then shake," said the goblin, holding out his hand.

Harry took it and shook. He wondered whether those black eyes saw any 
misgivings in

his own. Then Griphook relinquished him, clapped his hands together, and said, 
"So. We


It was like planning to break into the Ministry all over again. They settled to 
work in the

smallest bedroom, which was kept, according to Griphook's preference, in 

"I have visited the Lestranges' vault only once," Griphook told them, "on the 
occasion I

was told to place inside it the false sword. It is one of the most ancient 
chambers. The

oldest Wizarding families store their treasures at the deepest level, where the 
vaults are

largest and best protected...."

They remained shut in the cupboardlike room for hours at a time. Slowly the days

stretched into weeks. There was problem after problem to overcome, not least of 

was that their store of Polyjuice Potion was greatly depleted.

"There's really only enough left for one of us," said Hermione, tilting the 
thick mudlike

potion against the lamplight.

"That'll be enough," said Harry, who was examining Griphook's hand-drawn map of 

deepest passageways.

The other inhabitants of Shell Cottage could hardly fail to notice that 
something was

going on now that Harry, Ron and Hermione only emerged for mealtimes. Nobody 

questions, although Harry often felt Bill's eyes on the three of them at the 

thoughtful, concerned.

The longer they spent together, the more Harry realized that he did not much 
like the

goblin. Griphook was unexpectedly bloodthirsty, laughed at the idea of pain in 

creatures and seemed to relish the possibility that they might have to hurt 
other wizards to

reach the Lestranges' vault. Harry could tell that his distaste was shared by 
the other two,

but they did not discuss it. They needed Griphook.

The goblin ate only grudgingly with the rest of them. Even after his legs had 
mended, he

continued to request trays of food in his room, like the still-frail 
Ollivander, until Bill

(following an angry outburst from Fleur) went upstairs to tell him that the 

could not continue. Thereafter Griphook joined them at the overcrowded table, 

he refused to eat the same food, insisting, instead, on lumps of raw meat, 
roots, and

various fungi.

Harry felt responsible: It was, after all, he who had insisted that the goblin 
remain at Shell

Cottage so that he could question him; his fault that the whole Weasley family 
had been

driven into hiding, that Bill, Fred, George, and Mr. Weasley could no longer 

"I'm sorry," he told Fleur, one blustery April evening as he helped her prepare 
dinner. "I

never meant you to have to deal with all of this."

She had just set some knives to work, chipping up steaks for Griphook and Bill, 
who had

preferred his meat bloody ever since he had been attacked by Greyback. While 
the knives

sliced behind her, her somewhat irritable expression softened.

"'Any, you saved my sister's life, I do not forget."

This was not, strictly speaking, true, but Harry decided against reminding her 

Gabrielle had never been in real danger.

"Anyway," Fleur went on, pointing her want at a pot of sauce on the stove, 
which began

to bubble at once, "Mr. Ollivander leaves for Muriel's zis evening. Zat will 
make zings

easier. Ze goblin," she scowled a little at the mention of him, "can move 
downstairs, and

you, Ron, and Dean can take zat room."

"We don't mind sleeping in the living room," said Harry, who knew that Griphook 

thing poorly of having to sleep on the sofa; keeping Griphook happy was 
essential to

their plans. "Don't worry about us." And when she tried to protest he went on, 
"We'll be

off your hands soon too, Ron, Hermione, and I. We won't need to be here much 

"But, what do you mean?" she said, frowning at him, her wand pointing at the 

dish now suspended in midair. "Of course you must not leave, you are safe 'ere!"

She looked rather like Mrs. Weasley as she said it, and he was glad that the 
back door

opened at that moment. Luna and Dean entered, their hair damp from the rain 
outside and

their arms full of driftwood.

"... and tiny little ears," Luna was saying, "a bit like hippo's, Daddy says, 
only purple and

hairy. And if you want to call them, you have to hum; they prefer a waltz, 
nothing too


Looking uncomfortable, Dean shrugged at Harry as he passed, following Luna into 

combined dining and sitting room where Ron and Hermione were laying the dinner 

Seizing the chance to escape Fleur's questions, Harry grabbed two jugs of 
pumpkin juice

and followed them.

"... and if you ever come to our house I'll be able to show you the horn, Daddy 
wrote to

me about it but I haven't seen it yet, because the Death Eaters took me from 
the Hogwarts

Express and I never got home for Christmas," Luna was saying, as she and Dean 
relit the


"Luna, we told you," Hermione called over to her. "That horn exploded. It came 
from an

Erumpent, not a Crumple-Horned Snorkack ?"

"No, it was definitely a Snorkack horn," said Luna serenely, "Daddy told me. It 

probably have re-formed by now, they mend themselves, you know."

Hermione shook her head and continued laying down forks as Bill appeared, 
leading Mr.

Ollivander down the stairs. The wandmaker still looked exceptionally frail, and 
he clung

to Bill's arm as the latter supported him, carrying a large suitcase.

"I'm going to miss you, Mr. Ollivander," said Luna, approaching the old man.

"And I you, my dear," said Ollivander, patting her on the shoulder.

"You were an inexpressible comfort to me in that terrible place."

"So, an revoir, Mr. Ollivander," said Fleur, kissing him on both cheeks. "And I 

whezzer you could oblige me by delivering a package to Bill's Auntie Muriel? I 

returned 'er tiara."

"It will be an honor," said Ollivander with a little bow, "the very least I can 
do in return

for your generous hospitality."

Fleur drew out a worn velvet case, which she opened to show the wandmaker. The 

sat glittering and twinkling in the light from the low-hanging lamp.

"Moonstones and diamonds," said Griphook, who had sidled into the room without 

noticing. "Made by goblins, I think?"

"And paid for by wizards," said Bill quietly, and the goblin shot him a look 
that was both

furtive and challenging.

A strong wind gusted against the cottage windows as Bill and Ollivander set off 
into the

night. The rest of them squeezed in around the table; elbow to elbow and with 

enough room to move, they started to eat. The fire crackled and popped in the 

beside them. Fleur, Harry noticed, was merely playing with her food; she 
glanced at the

window every few minutes; however, Bill returned before they had finished their 

course, his long hair tangled by the wind.

"Everything's fine," he told Fleur. "Ollivander settled in, Mum and Dad say 
hello. Ginny

sends you all her love, Fred and George are driving Muriel up the wall, they're 

operating an Owl-Order business out of her back room. It cheered her up to have 
her tiara

back, though. She said she thought we'd stolen it."

"Ah, she eez charmant, your aunt," said Fleur crossly, waving her wand and 
causing the

dirty plates to rise and form a stack in midair. She caught them and marched 
out of the


"Daddy's made a tiara," piped up Luna, "Well, more of a crown, really."

Ron caught Harry's eye and grinned; Harry knew that he was remembering the 

headdress they had seen on their visit to Xenophilius.

"Yes, he's trying to re-create the lost diadem of Ravenclaw. He thinks he's 
identified most

of the main elements now. Adding the billy wig wings really made a difference ?"

There was a bang on the front door. Everyone's head turned toward it. Fleur came

running out of the kitchen, looking frightened; Bill jumped to his feed, his 
wand pointing

at the door; Harry, Ron, and Hermione did the same. Silently Griphook slipped 

the table, out of sight.

"Who is it?" Bill called.

"It is I, Remus John Lupin!" called a voice over the howling wind. Harry 
experienced a

thrill of fear; what had happened? "I am a werewolf, married to Nymphadora 
Tonks, and

you, the Secret-Keeper of Shell Cottage, told me the address and bade me come 
in an


"Lupin," muttered Bill, and he ran to the door and wrenched it open.

Lupin fell over the threshold. He was white-faced, wrapped in a traveling 
cloak, his

graying hair windswept. He straightened up, looked around the room, making sure 

who was there, then cried aloud, "It's a boy! We've named him Ted, after Dora's 

Hermione shrieked.

"Wha --? Tonks - Tonks has had the baby?"

"Yes, yes, she's had the baby!" shouted Lupin. All around the table came cries 
of delight,

sighs of relief: Hermione and Fleur both squealed, "Congratulations!" and Ron 

"Blimey, a baby!" as if he had never heard of such a thing before.

"Yes ? yes ? a boy," said Lupin again, who seemed dazed by his own happiness. He

strode around the table and hugged Harry; the scene in the basement of 
Grimmauld Place

might never have happened.

"You'll be godfather?" he said as he released Harry.

"M-me?" stammered Harry.

"You, yes, of course ? Dora quite agrees, no one better ?"

"I ? yeah ? blimey ?"

Harry felt overwhelmed, astonished, delighted; now Bill was hurrying to fetch 
wine, and

Fleur was persuading Lupin to join them for a drink.

"I can't stay long, I must get back," said Lupin, beaming around at them all: 
He looked

years younger than Harry had ever seen him. "Thank you, thank you, Bill"

Bill had soon filled all of their goblets, they stood and raised them high in a 

"To Teddy Remus Lupin," said Lupin, "a great wizard in the making!"

'"Oo does 'e look like?" Fleur inquired.

"I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like me. Not much hair. It 
looked black

when he was born, but I swear it's turned ginger in the hour since. Probably 
blond by the

time I get back. Andromeda says Tonks's hair started changing color the day 
that she was

born." He drained his goblet. "Oh, go on then, just one more," he added, 
beaming, as Bill

made to fill it again.

The wind buffeted the little cottage and the fire leapt and crackled, and Bill 
was soon

opening another bottle of wine. Lupin's news seemed to have taken them out of

themselves, removed them for a while from their state of siege: Tidings of new 
life were

exhilarating. Only the goblin seemed untouched by the suddenly festive 
atmosphere, and

after a while he slunk back to the bedroom he now occupied alone. Harry thought 
he was

the only one who had noticed this, until he saw Bill's eyes following the 
goblin up the


"No... no... I really must get back," said Lupin at last, declining yet another 
goblet of

wine. He got to his feet and pulled his traveling cloak back around himself.

"Good-bye, good-bye ? I'll try and bring some pictures in a few day's time ? 
they'll all be

so glad to know that I've seen you ?"

He fastened his cloak and made his farewells, hugging the women and grasping 

with the men, then, still beaming, returned into the wild night.

"Godfather, Harry!" said Bill as they walked into the kitchen together, helping 
clear the

table. "Areal honor! Congratulations!"

As Harry set down the empty goblets he was carrying, Bill pulled the door 
behind him

closed, shutting out the still-voluble voices of the others, who were 
continuing to

celebrate even in Lupin's absence.

"I wanted a private word, actually, Harry. It hasn't been easy to get an 
opportunity with

the cottage this full of people."

Bill hesitated.

"Harry, you're planning something with Griphook."

It was a statement, not a question, and Harry did not bother to deny it. He 
merely looked

at Bill, waiting.

"I know goblins," said Bill. "I've worked for Gringotts ever since I left 
Hogwarts. As far

as there can be friendship between wizards and goblins, I have goblin friends ? 
or, at

least, goblins I know well, and like." Again, Bill hesitated.

"Harry, what do you want from Griphook, and what have you promised him in 

"I can't tell you that," said Harry. "Sorry, Bill."

The kitchen door opened behind them; Fleur was trying to bring through more 


"Wait," Bill told her, "Just a moment."

She backed out and he closed the door again.

"Then I have to say this," Bill went on. "If you have struck any kind of 
bargain with

Griphook, and most particularly if that bargain involves treasure, you must be

exceptionally careful. Goblin notions of ownership, payment, and repayment are 
not the

same as human ones."

Harry felt a slight squirm of discomfort, as though a small snake had stirred 
inside him.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"We are talking about a different breed of being," said Bill. "Dealings between 

and goblins have been fraught for centuries ? but you'll know all that from 
History of

Magic. There has been fault on both sides, I would never claim that wizards 
have been

innocent. However, there is a belief among some goblins, and those at Gringotts 

perhaps most prone to it, that wizards cannot be trusted in matters of gold and 

that they have no respect for goblin ownership."

"I respect ?" Harry began, but Bill shook his head.

"You don't understand, Harry, nobody could understand unless they have lived 

goblins. To a goblin, the rightful and true master of any object is the maker, 
not the

purchaser. All goblin made objects are, in goblin eyes, rightfully theirs."

"But it was bought --"

"? then they would consider it rented by the one who had paid the money. They 

however, great difficulty with the idea of goblin-made objects passing from 
wizard to

wizard. You saw Griphook's face when the tiara passed under his eyes. He 
disapproves. I

believe he thinks, as do the fiercest of his kind, that it ought to have been 
returned to the

goblins once the original purchaser died. They consider our habit of keeping 

objects, passing them from wizard to wizard without further payment, little 
more than


Harry had an ominous feeling now; he wondered whether Bill guessed more than he 

letting on.

"All I am saying," said Bill, setting his hand on the door back into the sitting 
room, "is to

be very careful what you promise goblins, Harry. It would be less dangerous to 
break into

Gringotts than to renege on a promise to a goblin."

"Right," said Harry as Bill opened the door, "yeah. Thanks. I'll bear that in 

As he followed Bill back to the others a wry thought came to him, born no doubt 
of the

wine he had drunk. He seemed set on     to become just as reckless a godfather 

Teddy Lupin as Sirius Black had been to him.

Chapter Twenty-Six Gringotts

     Their plans were made, their preparations complete; in the smallest 
bedroom a single long, coarse black hair (plucked from the sweater Hermione had 
been wearing at Malfoy Manor) lay curled in a small glass phial on the 

     "And you'll be using her actual wand," said Harry, nodding toward the walnut wand, 
"so I reckon you'll be pretty convincing."

     Hermione looked frightened that the wand might sting or bit her as she 
picked it up.

     "I hate that thing," she said in a low voice. "I really hate it. It feels all 
wrong, it doesn't work properly for me ... It's like a bit of her."

     Harry could not help but remember how Hermione has dismissed his loathing 
of the blackthorn wand, insisting that he was imagining things when it did not 
work as well as his own, telling him to simply practice. He chose not to repeat 
her own advice back to her, however, the eve of their attempted assault on 
Gringotts felt like the wrong moment to antagonize her.

     "It'll probably help you get in character, though," said Ron. "think what that 
wand's done!"

     "But that's my point!" said Hermione. "This is the wand that tortured Neville's 
mum and dad, and who knows how many other people? This is the wand that killed Sirius!"

     Harry had not thought of that: He looked down at the wand and was visited 
by a brutal urge to snap it, to slice it in half with Gryffindor's sword, which 
was propped against the wall beside him.

     "I miss my wand," Hermione said miserably. "I wish Mr. Ollivander could have 
made me another one too."

     Mr. Ollivander had sent Luna a new wand that morning. She was out on the 
back lawn at that moment, testing its capabilities in the late afternoon sun. 
Dean, who had lost his wand to the Snatchers, was watching rather gloomily.

     Harry looked down at the hawthorn wand that had once belonged to Draco 
Malfoy. He had been surprised, but pleased to discover that it worked for him 
at least as well as Hermione's had done. Remembering what Ollivander had told 
them of the secret

workings of wands, Harry thought he knew what Hermione's problem was: She had 
not won the walnut wand's allegiance by taking it personally from Bellatrix.

     The door of the bedroom opened and Griphook entered. Harry reached instinctively for 
the hilt of the sword and drew it close to him, but regretted his action at once. He 
could tell that the goblin had noticed. Seeking to gloss over the sticky moment, he said, 
"We've just been checking the last-minute stuff, Griphook. We've told Bill and Fleur 
we're leaving tomorrow, and we've told them not to get up to see us off."

     They had been firm on this point, because Hermione would need to transform 
in Bellatrix before they left, and the less that Bill and Fleur knew or 
suspected about what they were about to do, the better. They had also explained 
that they would not be returning. As they had lost Perkin's old tent on the 
night that the Snatcher's caught them, Bill had lent them another one. It was 
now packed inside the beaded bag, which, Harry was impressed to learn, Hermione 
had protected from the Snatchers by the simple expedient of stuffing it down 
her sock.

     Though he would miss Bill, Fleur, Luna, and Dean, not to mention the home comforts they had 
enjoyed over the last few weeks, Harry was looking forward to escaping the confinement of Shell 
Cottage. He was tired of trying to make sure that they were not overheard, tired of being shut in 
the tiny, dark bedroom. Most of all, he longed to be rid of Griphook. However, precisely how and 
when they were to part from the goblin without handing over Gryffindor's sword remained a question 
to which Harry had no answer. It had been impossible to decide how they were going to do it, 
because the goblin rarely left Harry, Ron, and Hermione alone together for more than five minutes 
at a time: "He could give my mother lessons," growled Ron, as the goblin's long fingers 
kept appearing around the edges of doors. With Bill's warning in mind, Harry could not help 
suspecting that Griphook was on the watch for possible skullduggery. Hermione disapproved so 
heartily of the planned double-cross that Harry had given up attempting to pick her brains on how 
best to do it: Ron, on the rare occasions that they had been able to snatch a few Griphook-free 
moments, had come up with nothing better than "We'll just have to wing it, mate."

     Harry slept badly that night. Lying away in the early hours, he thought 
back to the way he had felt the night before they had infiltrated the Ministry 
of Magic and remembered a determination, almost an excitement. Now he was 
experiencing jolts of anxiety nagging doubts: He could not shake off the fear 
that it was all going to go wrong. He kept telling himself that their plan was 
good, that Griphook knew what they were facing, that they were well-prepared 
for all the difficulties they were likely to encounter, yet still he felt 
uneasy. Once or twice he heard Ron stir and was sure that he too was awake, but 
they were sharing the sitting room with Dean, so Harry did not speak.

     It was a relief when six o-clock arrived and they could slip out of their 
sleeping bags, dress in the semidarkness, then creep out into the garden, where 
they were to meet Hermione and Griphook. The dawn was chilly, but there was 
little wind now that it was May. Harry looked up at the stars still glimmering 
palely in the dark sky and listened to the sea washing backward and forward 
against the cliff: He was going to miss the sound.

     Small green shoots were forcing their way up through the red earth of 
Dobby's grave now, in a year's time the mound would be covered in flowers. The 
white stone that bore the elf s name had already acquired a weathered look. He 
realized now that they could hardly have laid Dobby to rest in a more beautiful 
place, but Harry ached with

sadness to think of leaving him behind. Looking down on the grave, he wondered 
yet again how the elf had known where to come to rescue them. His fingers moved 
absentmindedly to the little pouch still strung around his neck, thorough which 
he could feel the jagged mirror fragment in which he had been sure he had seen 
Dumbledore's eye. Then the sound of a door opening made him look around.

     Bellatrix Lestrange was striding across the lawn toward them, accompanied 
by Griphook. As she walked, she was tucking the small, beaded bag into the 
inside pocket of another set of the old robes they had taken from Grimmauld 
Place. Though Harry knew perfectly well that it was really Hermione, he could 
not suppress a shiver of loathing. She was taller than he was, her long black 
hair rippling down her back, her heavily lidded eyes disdainful as they rested 
upon him; but then she spoke, and he heard Hermione through Bellatrix's low 

     "She tasted disgusting, worse than Gurdyroots! Okay, Ron, come here so I can do 
you . . ."

"right, but remember, I don't like the beard too long"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, this isn't about looking handsome"

     "It's not that, it gets in the way! But I liked my nose a bit shorter, try and 
do it the way you did last time."

     Hermione sighed and set to work, muttering under her breath as she 
transformed various aspects of Ron's appearance. He was to be given a 
completely fake identity, and they were trusting to the malevolent aura cast by 
Bellatrix to protect him. Meanwhile Harry and Griphook were to be concealed 
under the Invisibility Cloak.

"There," said Hermione, "how does he look, Harry?"

     It was just not possible to discern Ron under his disguise, but only, 
Harry thought because he knew him so well. Ron's hair was now long and wavy; he 
had a thick brown beard and mustache, no freckles, a short, broad nose, and 
heavy eyebrows.

"Well, he's not my type, but he'll do," said Harry. "Shall we go, then?"

     All three of them glanced back at Shell Cottage, lying dark and silent 
under the fading stars, then turned and began to walk toward the point, just 
beyond the boundary wall, where the Fidelius Chard stopped working and they 
would be able to Disapparate. Once past the gate, Griphook spoke.

"I should climb up now, Harry Potter, I think?"

     Harry bent down and the goblin clambered onto his back, his hands linked 
on front of Harry's throat. He was not heavy, but Harry disliked the feeling of 
the goblin and the surprising strength with which he clung on. Hermione pulled 
the Invisibility Cloak out of the beaded bag and threw it over them both.

     "Perfect," she said, bending down to check Harry's feet. "I can't see a thing. 
Let's go."

     Harry turned on the spot, with Griphook on his shoulders, concentrating 
with all his might on the Leaky Cauldron, the inn that was the entrance to 
Diagon Alley. The goblin clung even tighter as they moved into the compressing 
darkness, and seconds later Harry's feet found pavement and he opened his eyes 
on Charing Cross Road. Muggles bustled past wearing the hangdog expressions of 
early morning, quite unconscious of the little inn's existence.

     The bar of the Leaky Cauldron was nearly deserted. Ton, the stooped and 
toothless landlord, was polishing glasses behind the bar counter; a couple of 

having a muttered conversation in the far corner glanced at Hermione and drew 
back into the shadows.

     "Madam Lestrange," murmured Tom, and as Hermione paused he inclined his 
head subserviently.

     "Good morning," said Hermione, and as Harry crept past, still carrying 
Griphook piggyback under the Cloak, he saw Tom look surprised.

     "Too polite," Harry whispered in Hermione's ear as they passed out of the Inn into 
the tiny backyard. "You need to treat people like they're scum!"

"Okay, okay!"

     Hermione drew out Bellatrix's wand and rapped a brick in the nondescript 
wall in front of them. At once the bricks began to whirl and spin: A hole 
appeared in the middle of them, which grew wider and wider, finally forming an 
archway onto the narrow cobbled street that was Diagon Alley.

     It was quiet, barely time for the shops to open, and there were hardly and 
shoppers abroad. The crooked, cobbled street was much altered now from the 
bustling place Harry had visited before his first team at Hogwarts so many 
years before. More shops than ever were boarded up, though several new 
establishments dedicated to the Dark Arts had been created since his last 
visit. Harry's own face glared down at him from posters plastered over many 
windows, always captioned with the words UNDESIRABLE NUMBER ONE.

     A number of ragged people sat huddled in doorways. He heard them moaning 
to the few passersby, pleading for gold, insisting that they were really 
wizards. One man had a bloody bandage over his eye.

     As they set off along the street, the beggars glimpsed Hermione. they 
seemed to melt away before her, drawing hoods over their faces and fleeing as 
fast as they could. Hermione looked after them curiously, until the man with 
the bloodied bandage came staggering right across her path.

     "My children," he bellowed, pointing at her. His voice was cracked, high-pitched, he 
sounded distraught. "Where are my children? What has he done with them? You know, you 

"I--I really--" stammered Hermione.

     The man lunged at her, reaching for her throat. Then, with a bang and a 
burst of red light he was thrown backward onto the ground, unconscious. Ron 
stood there, his wand still outstretched and a look of shock visible behind his 
beard. Faces appeared at the windows on either side of the street, while a 
little knot of prosperous-looking passerby gathered their robes about them and 
broke into gentle trots, keen to vacate the scene.

     their entrance into Diagon Alley could hardly have been more conspicuous; 
for a moment Harry wondered whether it might not be better to leave now and try 
to think of a different plan. Before they could move or consult one another, 
however, they heard a cry from behind them.

"Why, Madam Lestrange!"

     Harry whirled around and Griphook tightened his hold around Harry's neck: 
A tall, think wizard with a crown of bushy gray hair and a long, sharp nose was 
striding toward them.

     "It's Travers," hissed the goblin into Harry's ear, but at that moment 
Harry could not think who Travers was. Hermione had drawn herself up to full height and 
said with as much contempt as she could muster:

"And what do you want?"

Travers stopped in his tracks, clearly affronted.

     "He's another Death Eater!" breathed Griphook, and Harry sidled sideways 
to repeat the information into Hermione's ear.

     "I merely sought to greet you," said Travers coolly, "but if my presence is not 
welcome ..."

     Harry recognized his voice now: Travers was one of the Death Eaters who 
had been summoned to Xenophilius's house.

     "No, no, not at all, Travers," said Hermione quickly, trying to cover up her 
mistake. "How are you?"

"Well, I confess I am surprised to see you out and about, Bellatrix."

"Really? Why?" asked Hermione.

     "Well," Travers coughed, "I heard that the Inhabitants of Malfoy Manor were 
confined to the house, after the . . . ah . . . escape."

     Harry willed Hermione to keep her head. If this was true, and Bellatrix 
was not supposed to be out in public?

     "The Dark Lord forgives those who have served him most faithfully in the past," said 
Hermione in a magnificent imitation of Bellatrix's most contemptuous manner. "Perhaps your 
credit is not as good with him as mine is, Travers."

     Though the Death Eater looked offended, he also seemed less suspicious. He 
glanced down at the man Ron had just Stunned.

"How did it offend you?"

"It does not matter, it will not do so again," said Hermione coolly.

     "Some of these wandless can be troublesome," said Travers. "While they do nothing but beg I have no 
objection, but one of them actually asked me to plead her case in the Ministry last week. 'I'm a witch, sir, I'm a 
witch, let me prove it to you!" he said in a squeaky impersonation. "As if I was going to give her my 
wand?but whose wand," said Travers curiously, "are you using at the moment, Bellatrix? I heard that your own 

     "I have my wand here," said Hermione coldly, holding up Bellatrix's wand. "I 
don't know what rumors you have been listening to, Travers, but you seem sadly misinformed."

Travers seemed a little taken aback at that, and he turned instead to Ron.

"Who is your friend? I do not recognize him."

     "This is Dragomir Despard," said Hermione; they had decided that a fictional 
foreigner was the safest cover for Ron to assume. "He speaks very little English, but he is in 
sympathy with the Dark Lord's aims. He has traveled here from Transylvania to see our new 

"Indeed? How do you do, Dragomir?"

'"Ow you?" said Ron, holding out his hand.

     Travers extended two fingers and shook Ron's hand as though frightened of 
dirtying himself.

     So what brings you and your?ah?sympathetic friend to Diagon Alley this 
early?" asked Travers.

"I need to visit Gringotts," said Hermione.

     "Alas, I also," said Travers. "Gold, filthy gold! We cannot live without it, 
yet I confess I deplore the necessity of consorting with our long-fingered friends."

Harry felt Griphook's clasped hands tighten momentarily around his neck.

"Shall we?" said Travers, gesturing Hermione forward.

     Hermione had no choice but to fall into step beside him and head along the 
crooked, cobbled street toward the place where the snowy-white Gringotts stood 
towering over the other little shops. Ron sloped along beside them, and Harry 
and Griphook followed.

     A watchful Death Eater was the very last thing they needed, and the worst 
of it was, with Travers matching at what he believed to be Bellatrix's side, 
there was no means for Harry to communicate with Hermione or Ron. All too soon 
they arrived at the foot of the marble steps leading up to the great bronze 
doors. As Griphook had already warned them, the liveried goblins who usually 
flanked the entrance had been replaced by two wizards, both of whom were 
clutching long thin golden rods.

"Ah, Probity Probes," signed Travers theatrically, "so crude?but so effective!"

     And he set off up the steps, nodding left and right to the wizards, who raised the 
golden rods and passed them up and down his body. The Probes, Harry knew, detected spells 
of concealment and hidden magical objects. Knowing that he had only seconds, Harry 
pointed Draco's wand at each of the guards in turn and murmured, "Confundo" 
twice. Unnoticed by Travers, who was looking through the bronze doors at the inner hall, 
each of the guards gave a little start as the spells hit them.

Hermione's long black hair rippled behind her as she climbed the steps.

"One moment, madam," said the guard, raising his Probe.

     "But you've just done that!" said Hermione in Bellatrix's commanding, 
arrogant voice. Travers looked around, eyebrows raised. The guard was confused. He stared 
down at the thin golden Probe and then at his companion, who said in a slightly dazed 

"Yeah, you've just checked them, Marius."

     Hermione swept forward. Ron by her side, Harry and Griphook trotting 
invisibly behind them. Harry glanced back as they crossed the threshold. The 
wizards were both scratching their heads.

     Two goblins stood before the inner doors, which were made of silver and which 
carried the poem warning of dire retribution to potential thieves. Harry looked up at it, 
and all of a sudden a knife-sharp memory came to him: standing on this very spot on the 
day that he had turned eleven, the most wonderful birthday of his life, and Hagrid 
standing beside him saying, "Like I said, yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it." 
Gringotts had seemed a place of wonder that day, the enchanted repository of a trove of 
gold he had never known he possessed, and never for an instant could he have dreamed that 
he would return to steal . . . But within seconds they were standing in the vast marble 
hall of the bank.

     The long counter was manned by goblins sitting on high stools serving the 
first customers of the day. Hermione, Ron, and Travers headed toward an old 
goblin who was examining a thick gold coin through an eyeglass. Hermione 
allowed Travers to step ahead of her on the pretext of explaining features of 
the hall to Ron.

     The goblin tossed the coin he was holding aside, said to nobody in particular, 
"Leprechaun," and then greeted Travers, who passed over a tiny golden key, 
which was examined and given back to him.

Hermione stepped forward.

     "Madam Lestrange!" said the goblin, evidently startled. "Dear me!" How?how may 
I help you today?"

"I wish to enter my vault," said Hermione.

     The old goblin seemed to recoil a little. Harry glanced around. Not only 
was Travers hanging back, watching, but several other goblins had looked up 
from their work to stare at Hermione.

"You have . . . identification?" asked the goblin.

     "Identification? I--I have never been asked for identification before!" 
said Hermione.

     "They know!" whispered Griphook in Harry's ear, "They must have been warned 
there might be an imposter!"

     "Your wand will do, madam," said the goblin. He held out a slightly 
trembling hand, and in a dreadful blast of realization Harry knew that the goblins of 
Gringotts were aware that Bellatrix's wand had been stolen.

"Act now, act now," whispered Griphook in Harry's ear, "the Imperious Curse!"

     Harry raised the hawthorn wand beneath the cloak, pointed it at the old goblin, and 
whispered, for the first time in his life, "Imperio!"

     A curious sensation shot down Harry's arm, a feeling of tingling, warmth that seemed 
to flow from his mind, down the sinews and veins connecting him to the wand and the curse 
it had just cast. The goblin took Bellatrix's wand, examined it closely, and then said, 
"Ah, you have had a new wand made, Madam Lestrange!"

"What?" said Hermione, "No, no, that's mine--"

     "A new wand?" said Travers, approaching the counter again; still the goblins all 
around were watching. "But how could you have done, which wandmaker did you use?"

     Harry acted without thinking. Pointing his wand at Travers, he muttered, 
"Imperio!" once more.

     "Oh yes, I see," said Travers, looking down at Bellatrix's wand, "yes, very 
handsome, and is it working well? I always think wands require a little breaking in, don't 

     Hermione looked utterly bewildered, but to Harry's enormous relief she 
accepted the bizarre turn of events without comment.

     The old goblin behind the counter clapped his hands and a younger goblin 

     "I shall need the Clankers," he told the goblin, who dashed away and returned a moment later 
with a leather bag that seemed to be full of jangling metal, which he handed to his senior. "Good, good! 
S, if you will follow me, Madam Lestrange," said the old goblin, hopping down off his stool and 
vanishing from sight. "I shall take you to your vault."

     He appeared around the end of the counter, jogging happily toward them, 
the contents of the leather bag still jingling. Travers was now standing quite 
still with his mouth hanging wide open. Ron was drawing attention to this odd 
phenomenon by regarding Travers with confusion.


Another goblin came scurrying around the counter.

     "We have instructions," he said with a bow to Hermione. "Forgive me, Madam, but 
there have been special orders regarding the vault of Lestrange."

He whispered urgently in Bogrod's ear, but the Imperiused goblin shook him off.

     "I am aware of the instructions, Madam Lestrange wishes to visit her vault... 
Very old family ... old clients ... This way, please ..."

     And, still clanking, he hurried toward one of the many doors leading off 
the hall. Harry looked back at Travers , who was still rooted to the spot 
looking abnormally vacant, and made his decision. With a flick of his wand he 
made Travers come with them, walking meekly in their wake as they reached the 
door and passed into the rough stone passageway beyond, which was lit with 
flaming torches.

     "We're in trouble; they suspect," said Harry as the door slammed behind them and he pulled off 
the Invisibility Cloak. Griphook jumped down from his shoulders: neither Travers nor Bogrod showed the 
slightest surprise at the sudden appearance of Harry Potter in their midst. "They're Imperiused," 
he added, in response to Hermione and Ron's confused queries about Travers and Bogrod, who were both now 
standing there looking blank. "I don't think I did it strongly enough, I don't know ..."

     And another memory darted through his mind, of the real Bellatrix Lestrange 
shrieking at him when he had first tried to use an Unforgivable Curse: "You need to 
mean them, Potter!"

"What do we do?" asked Ron. "Shall we get out now, while we can?"

     "If we can," said Hermione, looking back toward the door into the main 
hall, beyond which who knew what was happening.

"We've got this far, I say we go on," said Harry.

     "Good!" said Griphook. "So, we need Bogrod to control the cart; I no long have 
the authority. But there will not be room for the wizard."

Harry pointed his wand at Travers.


The wizard turned and set off along the dark track at a smart pace.

"What are you making him do?"

     "Hide," said Harry as he pointed his wand at Bogrod, who whistled to 
summon a little cart that came trundling along the tracks toward them out of the 
darkness. Harry was sure he could hear shouting behind them in the main hall as they all 
clambered into it, Bogrod in front of Griphook, Harry, Ron, and Hermione crammed together 
in the back.

     With a jerk the cart moved off, gathering speed: They hurried past 
Travers, who was wriggling into a crack in the wall, then the cart began 
twisting and turning through the labyrinthine passages, sloping downward all 
the time. Harry could not hear anything over the rattling of the cart on the 
tracks: His hair flew behind him as they swerved between stalactites, flying 
ever deeper into the earth, but he kept glancing back. They might as well have 
left enormous footprints behind them; the more he thought about it, the more 
foolish it seemed to have disguised Hermione as Bellatrix, to have brought 
along Bellatrix's wand, when the Death Eaters knew who had stolen it -

     There were a deeper than Harry had ever penetrated within Gringotts; they took a 
hairpin bend at speed and saw ahead of them, with seconds to spare, a waterfall pounding 
over the track. Harry heard Griphook shout, "No!" but there was no braking. They

zoomed through it. Water filled Harry's eyes and mouth: He could not see or 
breathe: Then, with an awful lurch, the cart flipped over and they were all 
thrown out of it. Harry heard the cart smash into pieces against the passage 
wall, heard Hermione shriek something, and felt himself glide back toward the 
ground as though weightless, landing painlessly on the rocky passage floor.

     "C-Cushioning Charm," Hermione spluttered, as Ron pulled her to her feet, 
but to Harry's horror he saw that she was no longer Bellatrix; instead she stood there in 
overlarge robes, sopping wet and completely herself; Ron was red-haired and beardless 
again. They were realizing it as they looked at each other, feeling their own faces.

     "The Thief s Downfall!" said Griphook, clambering to his feet and looking back the 
deluge onto the tracks, which, Harry knew now, had been more than water. "It washes away all 
enchantment, all magical concealment! They know there are imposers in Gringotts, they have set off 
defenses against us!"

     Harry saw Hermione checking that she still had the beaded bag, and 
hurriedly thrust his own hand under his jacket to make sure he had not lost the 
Invisibility Cloak. Then he turned to see Bogrod shaking his head in 
bewilderment: The Thief s Downfall seemed to have lifted his Imperius Curse.

     "We need him," said Griphook, "we cannot enter the vault without a Gringott's 
goblin. And we need the clankers!"

     "Imperio!" Harry said again; his voice echoed through the stone passage as 
he felt again the sense of heady control that flowed from brain to wand. Bogrod submitted 
once more to his will, his befuddled expression changing to one of polite indifference, 
as Ron hurried to pick up the leather bag of metal tools.

     "Harry, I think I can hear people coming!" said Hermione, and she pointed 
Bellatrix's wand at the waterfall and cried, "Protego!" They saw the Shield Charm break 
the flow of enchanted water as it flew up the passageway.

"Good thinking," said Harry. "Lead the way, Griphook!"

     "How are we going to get out again?" Ron asked as they hurried on foot 
into the darkness after the goblin, Bogrod panting in their wake like an old dog.

     "Let's worry about that when we have to," said Harry. He was trying to listen: He 
thought he could hear something clanking and moving around nearby. "Griphook, how much 

"Not far, Harry Potter, not far ... "

     And they turned a corner and saw the thing for which Harry had been 
prepared, but which still brought all of them to a halt.

     A gigantic dragon was tethered to the ground in front of them, barring 
access to four or five of the deepest vaults in the place. The beast's scales 
had turned pale and flaky during its long incarceration under the ground, its 
eyes were milkily pink; both rear legs bore heavy cuffs from which chains led 
to enormous pegs driven deep into the rocky floor. Its great spiked wings, 
folded close to its body, would have filled the chamber if it spread them, and 
when it turned its ugly head toward them, it roared with a noise that made the 
rock tremble, opened its mouth, and spat a jet of fire that sent them running 
back up the passageway.

     "It is partially blind," panted Griphook, "but even more savage for that. 
However, we have the means to control it. It has learned what to expect when the Clankers come. 
Give them to me."

     Ron passed the bag to Griphook, and the goblin pulled out a number of 
small metal instruments that when shaken made a long ringing noise like 
miniature hammers on anvils. Griphook handed them out: Bogrod accepted his 

     "You know what to do," Griphook told Harry, Ron, and Hermione. "It will expect 
pain when it hears the noise. It will retreat, and Bogrod must place his palm upon the door of the 

     They advanced around the corner again, shaking the Clankers, and the noise 
echoed off the rocky walls, grossly magnified, so that the inside of Harry's 
skull seemed to vibrate with the den. The dragon let out another hoarse roar, 
then retreated. Harry could see it trembling, and as they drew nearer he saw 
the scars made by vicious slashes across its face, and guess that it had been 
taught to fear hot swords when it heard the sound of the Clankers.

     "Make him press his hand to the door!" Griphook urged Harry, who turned his wand 
again upon Bogrod. The old goblin obeyed, pressing his palm to the wood, and the door of the vault 
melted away to reveal a cavelike opening crammed from floor to ceiling with golden coins and 
goblets, silver armor, the skins of strange creatures - some with long spines, other with drooping 
wings - potions in jeweled flasks, and a skull still wearing a crown. "Search, fast!" 
said Harry as they all hurried inside the vault. He had described Hufflepuff s cap to Ron and 
Hermione, but if it was the other, unknown Horcrux that resided in this vault, he did not know what 
it looked like. He barely had time to glance around, however, before there was a muffled clunk from 
behind them: The door had reappeared, sealing them inside the vault, and they were plunged into 
total darkness.

     "No matter, Bogrod will be able to release us!" said Griphook as Ron gave a shout of 
surprise. "Light your wands, can't you? And hurry, we have little time!"


     Harry shone his lit wand around the vault: Its beam fell upon glittering 
jewels; he saw the fake sword of Gryffindor lying on a high shelf amongst a 
jumble of chains. Ron and Hermione had lit their wands too, and were now 
examining the piles of objects surrounding them.

"Harry, could this be -- ? Aargh!"

     Hermione screamed in pain, and Harry turned his wand on her in time to see 
a jeweled goblet tumbling from her grip. But as it fell, it split, became a 
shower of goblets, so that a second later, with a great clatter, the floor was 
covered in identical cups rolling in every direction, the original impossible 
to discern amongst them.

"It burned me!" moaned Hermione, sucking her blistered fingers.

"They have added Germino and Flagrante Curses!" said Griphook.

     "Everything you touch will burn and multiply, but the copies are worthless - 
and if you continue to handle the treasure, you will eventually be crushed to death by 
the weight of expanding gold!"

     "Okay, don't touch anything!" said Harry desperately, but even as he said 
it, Ron accidentally nudged one of the fallen goblets with his foot, and twenty more 
exploded into being while Ron hopped on the spot, part of his shoe burned away by contact 
with the hot metal.

"Stand still, don't move!" said Hermione, clutching at Ron.

     "Just look around!" said Harry. "Remember, the cup's small and gold, it's got a 
badger engraved on it, two handles - otherwise see if you can spot Ravenclaw's symbol anywhere, the 
eagle -"

     They directed their wands into every nook and crevice, turning cautiously 
on the spot. It was impossible not to brush up against anything; Harry sent a 
great cascade of fake Galleons onto the ground where they joined the goblets, 
and now there was scarcely room to place their feet, and the glowing gold 
blazed with heat, so that the vault felt like a furnace. Harry's wandlight 
passed over shields and goblin-made helmets set on shelves rising to the 
ceiling; higher and higher he raised the beam, until suddenly it found an 
object that made his heart skip and his hand tremble.

"It's there, it's up there!"

     Ron and Hermione pointed there wands at it too, so that the little golden 
cup sparkled in a three-way spotlight: the cup that had belonged to Helga 
Hufflepuff, which had passed into the possession of Hepzibah Smith, from whom 
it had been stolen by Tom Riddle.

     "And how the hell are we going to get up there without touching anything?" 
asked Ron.

     "Actio Cup!" cried Hermione, who had evidently forgotten in her 
desperation what Griphook had told them during their planning sessions.

"No use, no use!" snarled the goblin.

     "Then what do we do?" said Harry, glaring at the goblin. "If you want the 
sword, Griphook, then you'll have to help us more than - wait! Can I touch stuff with the sword? 
Hermione, give it here!"

     Hermione fumbled insider her robes, drew out a beaded bag, rummaged for a 
few seconds, then removed the shining sword. Harry seized it by its rubied hilt 
and touched the tip of the blade to a silver flagon nearby, which did not 

     "If I can just poke the sword through a handle - but how am I going to get up 

     The shelf on which the cup reposed was out of reach for any of them, even 
Ron, who was tallest. The heat from the enchanted treasure rose in waves, and 
sweat ran down Harry's face and back as he struggled to think of a way up to 
the cup; and then he heard the dragon roar on the other side of the vault door, 
and the sound of clanking growing louder and louder.

     They were truly trapped now: There was no way out except through the door, 
and a horde of goblins seemed to be approaching on the other side. Harry looked 
at Ron and Hermione and saw terror in their faces.

     "Hermione," said Harry, as the clanking grew louder, "I've got to get up there, 
we've got to get rid of it -"

She raised her wand, pointed it at Harry, and whispered, "Levicorpus"

     Hoisted into the air by his ankle, Harry hit a suit of armor and replicas 
burst out of it like white-hot bodies, filling the cramped space. With screams 
of pain, Ron, Hermione, and the two goblins were knocked aside into other 
objects, which also began to replicate. Half buried in a rising tide of red-hot 
treasure, they struggled and yelled has Harry thrust the sword through the 
handle of Hufflepuff s cup, hooking it onto the blade.

     "Impervius!" screeched Hermione in an attempt to protect herself, Ron, and 
the goblins from the burning metal.

     Then the worst scream yet made Harry look down: Ron and Hermione were 
waist deep in treasure, struggling to keep Bogrod from slipping beneath the 
rising tide, but Griphook had sunk out of sight; and nothing but the tips of a 
few long fingers were left in view.

     Harry seized Griphook's fingers and pulled. The blistered goblin emerged 
by degrees, howling.

     "Liberatocorpus!" yelled Harry, and with a crash he and Griphook landed on 
the surface of the swelling treasure, and the sword flew out of Harry's hand.

     "Get it!" Harry yelled, fighting the pain of the hot metal on his skin, as Griphook 
clambered onto his shoulders again, determined to avoid the swelling mass of red-hot objects. 
"Where's the sword? It had the cup on it!"

The clanking on the other side of the door was growing deafening - it was too 


     It was Griphook who had seen it and Griphook who lunged, and in that 
instant Harry knew that the goblin had never expected them to keep their word. 
One hand holding tightly to a fistful of Harry's hair, to make sure he did not 
fall into the heaving sea of burning gold, Griphook seized the hilt of the 
sword and swung it high out of Harry's reach. The tiny golden cup, skewered by 
the handle on the sword's blade was flung into the air. The goblin astride him, 
Harry dived and caught it, and although he could feel it scalding his flesh he 
did not relinquish it, even while countless Hufflepuff cups burst from his 
fist, raining down upon him as the entrance of the vault opened up again and he 
found himself sliding uncontrollably on an expanding avalanche of fiery gold 
and silver that bore him, Ron, Hermione into the outer chamber.

     Hardly aware of the pain from the burns covering his body, and still borne along the 
swell of replicating treasure, Harry shoved the cup into his pocket and reached up to 
retrieve the sword, but Griphook was gone. Sliding from Harry's shoulders the moment he 
could, he had sprinted for cover amongst the surrounding goblins, brandishing the sword 
and crying, "Thieves! Thieves! Help! Thieves!" He vanished into the midst of 
the advancing crowd, all of whom were holding daggers and who accepted him without 

     Slipping on the hot metal, Harry struggled to his feet and knew that the 
only way out was through.

     "Stupefy!" he bellowed, and Ron and Hermione joined in: Jets of red light 
flew into the crowd of goblins, and some toppled over, but others advanced, and Harry saw 
several wizard guards running around the corner.

     The tethered dragon let out a roar, and a gush of flame flew over the goblins; The 
wizards fled, doubled-up, back the way they had come, and inspiration, or madness, came 
to Harry. Pointing his wand at the thick cuffs chaining the beast to the floor, he 
yelled, "Relashio!"

The cuffs broken open with loud bangs.

     "This way!" Harry yelled, and still shooting Stunning Spells at the 
advancing goblins, he sprinted toward the blind dragon.

"Harry - Harry - what are you doing?" cried Hermione.

"Get up, climb up, come on -"

     The dragon had not realized that it was free: Harry's foot found the crook 
of its hind leg and he pulled himself up onto its back. The scales were hard as 
steel; it did not even seem to feel him. He stretched out an arm; Hermione 
hoisted herself up; Ron climbed on behind them, and a second later the dragon 
became aware that it was untethered.

     With a roar it reared: Harry dug in his knees, clutching as tightly as he 
could to the jagged scales as the wings opened, knocking the shrieking goblins 
aside like skittles, and it soared into the air. Harry, Ron, and Hermione, flat 
on its back, scraped against the ceiling as it dived toward the passage 
opening, while the pursuing goblins hurled daggers that glanced off its flanks.

     "We'll never get out, it's too big!" Hermione screamed, but the dragon opened 
its mouth and belched flame again, blasting the tunnel, whose floors and ceiling cracked and 
crumbled. By sheer force, the dragon clawed and fought its way through. Harry's eyes were shut 
tight against the heat and dust: Deafened by the crash of rock and the dragon's roars, he 
could only cling to its back, expecting to be shaken off at any moment; then he heard Hermione 
yelling, "Defodiof

     She was helping the dragon enlarge the passageway, carving out the ceiling 
as it struggled upward toward the fresher air, away from the shrieking and 
clanking goblins: Harry and Ron copied her, blasting the ceiling apart with 
more gouging spells. They passed the underground lake, and the great crawling, 
snarling beast seemed to sense freedom and space ahead of it, and behind them 
the passage was full of the dragon's thrashing, spiked tail, of great lumps of 
rock, gigantic fractured stalactites, and the clanking of the goblins seemed to 
be growing more muffled, while ahead, the dragon's fire kept their progress 
clear -

     And then at last, by the combined force of their spells and the dragon's 
brute strength, they had blasted their way out of the passage into the marble 
hallway. Goblins and wizards shrieked and ran for cover, and finally the dragon 
had room to stretch its wings: Turning its horned head toward the cool outside 
air it could smell beyond the entrance, it took off, and with Harry, Ron, and 
Hermione still clinging to its back, it forced its way through the metal doors, 
leaving them buckled and hanging from their hinges, as it staggered into Diagon 
Alley and launched itself into the sky.

Chapter Twenty-Seven The Final Hiding Place

There was no means of steering; the dragon could not see where it was going, 
and Harry knew that if it turned sharply or rolled in midair they would find it 
impossible to cling onto its broad back. Nevertheless, as they climbed higher 
and higher, London unfurling below them like a gray-and-green map, Harry's 
overwhelming feeling was of gratitude for an escape that had seemed impossible. 
Crouching low over the beast's neck, he clung tight to

the metallic scales, and the cool breeze was soothing on his burned and 
blistered skin, the dragon's wings beating the air like the sails of a 
windmill. Behind him, whether from delight or fear he could not tell. Ron kept 
swearing at the top of his voice, and Hermione seemed to be sobbing.

 After five minutes or so, Harry lost some of his immediate dread that the 
dragon was going to throw them off, for it seemed intent on nothing but getting 
as far away from its underground prison as possible; but the question of how 
and when they were to dismount remained rather frightening. He had no idea how 
long dragons could fly without landing, nor how this particular dragon, which 
could barely see, would locate a good place to put down. He glanced around 
constantly, imagining that he could feel his seat prickling.

 How long would it be before Voldemort knew that they had broken into the 
Lestranges' vault? How soon would the goblins of Gringotts notify Bellatrix? 
How quickly would they realize what had been taken? And then, when they 
discovered that the golden cup was missing? Voldemort would know, at last, that 
they were hunting Horcruxes.

 The dragon seemed to crave cooler and fresher air. It climbed steadily until 
they were flying through wisps of chilly cloud, and Harry could no longer make 
out the little colored dots which were cars pouring in and out of the capital. 
On and on they flew, over countryside parceled out in patches of green and 
brown, over roads and rivers winding through the landscape like strips of matte 
and glossy ribbon.

 "What do you reckon it's looking for?" Ron yelled as they flew farther and 
farther north.

 "No idea," Harry bellow back. His hands were numb with cold but he did not 
date attempt to shift his grip. He had been wondering for some time what they would do if 
they saw the coast sail beneath them, if the dragon headed for open seal he was cold and 
numb, not to mention desperately hungry and thirsty. When, he wondered, had the beast 
itself last eaten? Surely it would need sustenance before long? And what if, at that 
point, it realized it had three highly edible humans sitting on its back?

 The sun slipped lower in the sky, which was turning indigo; and still the 
dragon flew, cities and towns gliding out of sight beneath them, its enormous 
shadow sliding over the earth like a giant dark cloud. Every part of Harry 
ached with the effort of holding on to the dragon's back.

 "Is it my imagination," shouted Ron after a considerable stretch of silence, "or 
are we losing height?"

 Harry looked down and saw deep green mountains and lakes, coppery in the 
sunset, the landscape seemed to grow larger and more detailed as he squinted 
over the side of the dragon, and he wondered whether it had divined the 
presence of fresh water by the flashes of reflected sunlight.

 Lower and lower the dragon flew, in great spiraling circles, honing in, it 
seemed, upon one of the smaller lakes.

 "I say we jump when it gets low enough!" Harry called back to the others. "Straight 
into the water before it realizes we're here!"

 They agreed, Hermione a little faintly, and now Harry could see the dragon's 
wide yellow underbelly rippling in the surface of the water.


 He slithered over the side of the dragon and plummeted feetfirst toward the 
surface of the lake; the drop was greater than he had estimated and he hit the 
water hard, plunging like a stone into a freezing, green, reed-filled world. He 
kicked toward the surface and emerged, panting, to see enormous ripples 
emanating in circles from the places where Ron and Hermione had fallen. The 
dragon did not seem to have noticed anything; it was already fifty feet away, 
swooping low over the lake to scoop up water in its scarred snout. As Ron and 
Hermione emerged, spluttering and gasping, from the depths of the lake, the 
dragon flew on, its wings beating hard, and landed at last on a distant bank.

 Harry, Ron and Hermione struck out for the opposite shore. The lake did not 
seem to be deep. Soon it was more a question of fighting their way through 
reeds and mud than swimming, and at last they flopped, sodden, panting, and 
exhausted, onto slippery grass.

 Hermione collapsed, coughing and shuddering. Though Harry could have happily 
lain down and slept, he staggered to his feet, drew out his wand, and started 
casting the usual protective spells around them.

 When he had finished, he joined the others. It was the first time that he had 
seen them properly since escaping from the vault. Both had angry red burns all 
over their faces and arms, and their clothing was singed away in places. They 
were wincing as they dabbed essence of dittany onto their many injuries. 
Hermione handed Harry the bottle, then pulled out three bottles of pumpkin 
juice she had brought from Shell Cottage and clean, dry robes for all of them. 
They changes and then gulped down the juice.

 "Well, on the upside," said Ron finally, who was sitting watching the skin on his hands 
regrow, "we got the Horcrux. On the downside-"

 "? no sword," said Harry through gritted teeth, as he dripped dittany through 
the singed hole in his jeans onto the angry burn beneath.

"No sword," repeated Ron. "That double-crossing little scab..."

 Harry pulled the Horcrux from the pocket of the wet jacket he had just taken 
off and set it down on the grass in front of them. Glinting in the sun, it drew 
their eyes as they swigged their bottles of juice.

 "At least we can't wear it this time, that'd look a bit weird hanging around our 
necks," said Ron, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

 Hermione looked across the lake to the far bank where the dragon was still 

"What'll happen to it, do you think?" she asked, "Will it be alright?"

 "You sound like Hagrid," said Ron, "It's a dragon, Hermione, it can look after 
itself. It's us we need to worry about."

"What do you mean?"

 "Well I don't know how to break this to you," said Ron, "but I think they might 
have noticed we broke into Gringotts."

All three of them started to laugh, and once started, it was difficult

to stop. Harry's ribs ached, he felt lightheaded with hunger, but he lay back 
on the grass beneath the reddening sky and laughed until his throat was raw.

 "What are we going to do, though?" said Hermione finally, hiccuping herself back to 
seriousness. "He'll know, won't he? You-Know-Who will know we know about his Horcruxes!"

 "Maybe they'll be too scared to tell him!" said Ron hopefully, "Maybe they'll cover 
up ?"

 The sky, the smell of the lake water, the sound of Ron's voice were 
extinguished. Pain cleaved Harry's head like a sword stroke. He was standing in 
a dimly lit room, and a semicircle of wizards faced him, and on the floor at 
his feet knelt a small, quaking figure.

 "What did you say to me?" His voice was high and cold, but fury and fear 
burned inside him. The one thing that he had dreaded - but it could not be true, he could 
not see how...

The goblin was trembling, unable to meet the red eyes high above his.

"Say it again!" murmured Voldemort. "Say it again!"

 "M-my Lord," stammered the goblin, its black eyes wide with terror, "m-my Lord... 
we t-tried to st-stop them... Im-impostors, my Lord... broke -broke into the - into the Lestranges' 

 "Impostors? What impostors? I thought Gringotts had ways of revealing 
impostors? Who were they?

"It was... it was... the P-Potter b-boy and the t-two accomplices..."

 "And they took?" he said, his voice rising, a terrible fear gripping him, "Tell me! 
What did they take?"

"A... a s-small golden c-cup m-my Lord..."

 The scream of rage, of denial left him as if it were a stranger's. He was 
crazed, frenzied, it could not be true, it was impossible, nobody had known. 
How was it possible that the boy could have discovered his secret?

 The Elder Wand slashed through the air and green light erupted through the 
room; the kneeling goblin rolled over dead; the watching wizards scattered 
before him, terrified. Bellatrix and Lucius Malfoy threw others behind them in 
their race for the door, and again and again his wand fell, and those who were 
left were slain, all of them, for bringing him this news, for hearing about the 
golden cup -

 Alone amongst the dead he stomped up and down, and they passed before him in 
vision: his treasures, his safeguards, his anchors to immortality - the diary 
was destroyed and the cup was stolen. What if, what if, the boy knew about the 
others? Could he know, had he already acted, had he traced more of them? Was 
Dumbledore at the root of this? Dumbledore, who had always suspected him; 
Dumbledore, dead on his orders; Dumbledore, whose wand was his now, yet who 
reached out from the ignominy of death through the boy, the boy -

 But surely if the boy had destroyed any of his Horcruxes, he, Lord Voldemort, 
would have known, would have felt it? He, the greatest wizard of them all; he, 
the most powerful; he, the killer of Dumbledore and of how

many other worthless, nameless men. How could Lord Voldemort not have known, if 
he, himself, most important and precious, had been attacked, mutilated?

 True, he had not felt it when the diary had been destroyed, but he had thought 
that was because he had no body to fell, being less than ghost... No, surely, 
the rest were safe... The other Horcruxes must be intact...

 But he must know, he must be sure... He paced the room, kicking aside the 
goblin's corpse as he passed, and the pictures blurred and burned in his 
boiling brain: the lake, the shack, and Hogwarts -

 A modicum of calm cooled his rage now. How could the boy know that he had 
hidden the ring in the Gaunt shack? No one had ever known him to be related to 
the Gaunts, he had hidden the connection, the killings had never been traced to 
him. The ring, surely, was safe.

 And how could the boy, or anybody else, know about the cave or penetrate its 
protection? The idea of the locket being stolen was absurd...

 As for the school: He alone knew where in Hogwarts he had stowed the Horcrux, 
because he alone had plumed the deepest secrets of that place...

 And there was still Nagini, who must remain close now, no longer sent to do 
his bidding, under his protection...

 But to be sure, to be utterly sure, he must return to each of his hiding 
places, he must redouble protection around each of his Horcruxes... A job, like 
the quest for the Elder Wand, that he must undertake alone...

 Which should he visit first, which was in most danger? An old unease flickered 
inside him. Dumbledore had known his middle name... Dumbledore might have made 
the connection with the Gaunts... Their abandoned home was, perhaps, the least 
secure of his hiding places, it was there that he would go first...

 The lake, surely impossible... though was there a slight possibility that 
Dumbledore might have known some of his past misdeeds, through the orphanage.

 And Hogwarts... but he knew the his Horcrux there was safe; it would be 
impossible for Potter to enter Hogsmeade without detection, let alone the 
school. Nevertheless, it would be prudent to alert Snape to the fact that the 
boy might try to reenter the castle. ... To tell Snape why the boy might return 
would be foolish, of course; it had been a grave mistake to trust Bellatrix and 
Malfoy. Didn't their stupidity and carelessness prove how unwise it was ever to 

 He would visit the Gaunt shack first, then, and take Nagini with him. He would 
not be parted from the snake anymore ... and he strode from the room, through 
the hall, and out into the dark garden where the fountain played; he called the 
snake in Parseltongue and it slithered out to join him like a long shadow. ...

 Harry's eyes flew open as he wrenched himself back to the present. He was 
lying on the bank of the lake in the setting sun, and Ron and Hermione were 
looking down at him. Judging by their worried looks, and by the continued 
pounding of his scar, his sudden excursion into Voldemort's mind had not passed 
unnoticed. He struggled up, shivering, vaguely surprised that

he was still wet to his skin, and saw the cup lying innocently in the grass 
before him, and the lake, deep blue shot with gold in the falling sun.

 "He knows." His own voice sounded strange and low after Voldemort's high screams. "He knows 
and he's going to check where the others are, and the last one," he was already on his feet," is at 
Hogwarts. I knew it. I knew it."


Ron was gaping at him; Hermione sat up, looking worried.

"But what did you see? How do you know?"

 "I saw him find out about the cup, I -1 was in his head, he's" - Harry remembered the 
killings - "he's seriously angry, and scared too, he can't understand how we knew, and now 
he's going to check the others are safe, the ring first. He things the Hogwarts one is safest, 
because Snape's there, because it'll be so hard not to be seen getting in. I think he'll check that 
one last, but he could still be there within hours -"

 "Did you see where in Hogwarts it is?" asked Ron, now scrambling to his feet 

 "No, he was concentrating on warning Snape, he didn't think about exactly where it 
is -"

 "Wait, wait!" cried Hermione as Ron caught up to the Horcrux and Harry pulled out the 
Invisibility Cloak again. "We can't just go, we haven't got a plan, we need to -"

 "We need to get going," said Harry firmly. He had been hoping to sleep, looking 
forward to getting into the new tent, but that was impossible now, "Can you imagine what 
he's going to do once he realizes the ring and the locket are gone? What if he moves the 
Hogwarts Horcrux, decides it isn't safe enough?

"But how are we going to get in?"

 "We'll go to Hogsmeade," said Harry, "and try to work something out once we see 
what the protection around the school's like. Get under the Cloak, Hermione, I want to stick 
together this time."

"But we don't really fit -"

"It'll be dark, no one's going to notice our feet."

 The flapping of enormous wings echoed across the black water. The dragon had 
drunk its fill and risen into the air. They paused in their preparations to 
watch it climb higher and higher, now black against the rapidly darkening sky, 
until it vanished over a nearby mountain. Then Hermione walked forward and took 
her place between the other two, Harry pulled the Cloak down as far as it would 
go, and together they turned on the spot into the crushing darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The Missing Mirror

 Harry's feet touched the road. He saw the achingly familiar Hogsmeade High 
Street: dark shop

fronts, and the mist line of black mountains beyond the village and the curve 
in the road ahead that

led off toward Hogwarts, and light spilling from the windows of the Three 
Broomsticks, and with a

lurch of the hear, he remembered with piercing accuracy, how he had landed here 
nearly a year before,

supporting a desperately weak Dumbledore, all this in a second, upon landing ? 
and then, even as he relaxed his grip upon Ron's and Hermione's arms, it 

     The air was rent by a scream that sounded like Voldemort's when he had 
realized the cup had

been stolen: It tore at every nerve in Harry's body, and he knew that their 
appearance had caused it.

Even as he looked at the other two beneath the Cloak, the door of the Three 
Broomsticks burst open and a dozen cloaked and hooded Death Eaters dashed into 
the streets, their wands aloft.

     Harry seized Ron's wrist as he raised his wand; there were too many of 
them to run. Even

attempting it would have give away their position. One of the Death Eaters 
raised his wand, and the scream stopped, still echoing around the distant 

"Actio Cloak!" roared one of the Death Eaters

     Harry seized his folds, but it made no attempt to escape. The Summoning 
Charm had not worked on it.

     "Not under your wrapper, then, Potter?" yelled the Death Eater who had tried the 
charm and then to his fellows. "Spread now. He's here."

     Six of the Death Eaters ran toward them: Harry, Ron and Hermione backed as 
quickly as

possible down the nearest side street, and the Death Eaters missed them by 
inches. They waited

in the darkness, listening to the footsteps running up and down, beams of light 
flying along the street from the Death Eaters' searching wands.

"Let's just leave!" Hermione whispered. "Disapparate now!"

"Great idea," said Ron, but before Harry could reply, a Death Eater shouted,

"We know you are here, Potter, and there's no getting away! We'll find you!"

     "They were ready for us," whispered Harry. "They set up that spell to tell them 
we'd come. I reckon they've done something to keep us here, trap us -"

     "What about dementors?" called another Death Eater. "Let'em have free rein, 
they'd find him quick enough!"

"The Dark Lord wants Potter dead by no hands but his -"

     " 'an dementors won't kill him! The Dark Lord wants Potter's life, nor his 
soul. He'll be easier to kill if he's been Kissed first!"

     There were noises of agreement. Dread filled Harry: To repel dementors 
they would have to produce Patronuses which would give them away immediately.

"We're going to have to try to Disapparate, Harry!" Hermione whispered.

     Even as she said it, he felt the unnatural cold being spread over the 
street. Light was sucked from

the environment right up to the stars, which vanished. In the pitch blackness, 
he felt Hermione take hold of his arm and together, they turned on the spot.

     The air through which they needed to move, seemed to have become solid: 
They could not

Disapparate; the Death Eaters had cast their charms well. The cold was biting 
deeper and deeper

into Harry's flesh. He, Ron and Hermione retreated down the side street, 
groping their way along the wall

trying not to make a sound. Then, around the corner, gliding noiselessly, came 
dementors, ten or more

of them, visible because they were of a denser darkness than their 
surroundings, with their black cloaks

and their scabbed and rotting hands. Could they sense fear in the vicinity? 
Harry was sure of it: They

seemed to be coming more quickly now, taking those dragging, rattling breaths 
he detested, tasting despair in the air, closing in -

     He raised his wand: He could not, would not suffer the Dementor's Kiss, whatever 
happened afterward. It was of Ron and Hermione that he thought as he whispered 
"Expecto Patronum!"

     The silver stag burst from his wand and charged: The Dementors scattered 
and there was a triumphant yell from somewhere out of sight

"It's him, down there, down there, I saw his Patronus, it was a stag!"

     The Dementors have retreated, the stars were popping out again and the 
footsteps of the Death Eaters

were becoming louder; but before Harry in his panic could decide what to do, 
there was a grinding of bolts

nearby, a door opened on the left-side of the narrow street, and a rough voice said: 
"Potter, in here, quick!"

He obeyed without hesitation, the three of them hurried through the open 

     "Upstairs, keep the Cloak on, keep quiet!" muttered a tall figure, passing 
them on his way into the street and slammed the door behind him.

     Harry had had no idea where they were, but now he saw, by the stuttering 
light of a single candle,

the grubby, sawdust bar of the Hog's Head Inn. They ran behind the counter and 
through a second doorway,

which led to a trickery wooden staircase, that they climbed as fast as they 
could. The stairs opened into

a sitting room with a durable carpet and a small fireplace, above which hung a 
single large oil painting of a blonde girl who gazed out at the room with a 
kind of a vacant sweetness.

     Shouts reached from the streets below. Still wearing the Invisibility 
Cloak on, they hurried toward the

grimy window and looked down. Their savior, whom Harry now recognized as the 
Hog's Head's barman, was the only person not wearing a hood.

     "So what?" he was bellowing into one of the hooded faces. "So what? You 
send dementors down my street,

I'll send a Patronus back at'em! I'm not having'em near me, I've told you that. I'm 
not having it!"

     "That wasn't your Patronus," said a Death Eater. "That was a stag. It was 

     "Stag!" roared the barman, and he pulled out a wand. "Stag! You idiot - Expecto 

     Something huge and horned erupted from the wand. Head down, it charged 
toward the High Street, and out of sight.

"That's not what I saw" said the Death Eater, though was less certainly

     "Curfew's been broken, you heard the noise," one of his companions told the barman. 
"Someone was out on the streets against regulations -"

"If I want to put my cat out, I will, and be damned to your curfew!"

"You set off the Caterwauling Charm?"

     "What if I did? Going to cart me off to Azkaban? Kill me for sticking my 
nose out my own front door? Do it,

then, if you want to! But I hope for your sakes you haven't pressed your little Dark 
Marks, and summoned him. He's not going to like being called here, for me and my old 
cat, is he, now?"

     "Don't worry about us." said one of the Death Eaters, "worry about yourself, 
breaking curfew!"

     "And where will you lot traffic potions and poisons when my pub's closed down? 
What will happen to your little sidelines then?"

"Are you threatening - ?"

"I keep my mouth shut, it's why you come here, isn't it?"

"I still say I saw a stag Patronus!" shouted the first Death Eater.

"Stag?" roared the barman. "It's a goat, idiot!"

     "All right, we made a mistake," said the second Death Eater. "Break curfew 
again and we won't be so lenient!"

     The Death Eaters strode back towards the High Street. Hermione moaned with 
relief, wove out from under the Cloak,

and sat down on a wobble-legged chair. Harry drew the curtains then pulled the 
Cloak off himself and Ron. They could hear the barman down below, rebolting the 
door of the bar, then climbing the stairs.

     Harry's attention was caught by something on the mantelpiece: a small, 
rectangular mirror, propped on top of it, right beneath the portrait of the 

The barman entered the room.

     "You bloody fools," he said gruffly, looking from one to the other of them. 
"What were you thinking, coming here?"

"Thank you," said Harry. "You can't thank you enough. You saved our lives!"

     The barman grunted. Harry approached him looking up into the face: trying 
to see past the long, stringy, wire-gray hair beard. He wore spectacles. Behind 
the dirty lenses, the eyes were a piercing, brilliant blue.

"It's your eye I've been seeing in the mirror."

There was a silence in the room. Harry and the barman looked at each other.

"You sent Dobby."

The barman nodded and looked around for the elf.

"Thought he'd be with you. Where've you left him?

"He's dead," said Harry, "Bellatrix Lestrange killed him."

     The barman face was impassive. After a few moments he said, "I'm sorry to hear 
it, I liked that elf."

     He turned away, lightning lamps with prods of his wand, not looking at any 
of them.

"You're Aberforth," said Harry to the man's back.

He neither confirmed or denied it, but bent to light the fire.

     "How did you get this?" Harry asked, walking across to Sirius's mirror, 
the twin of the one he had broken nearly two years before.

     "Bought it from Dung 'bout a year ago," said Aberforth. "Albus told me what it 
was. Been trying to keep an eye out for you."

Ron gasped.

"The silver doe," he said excitedly, "Was that you too?"

"What are you talking about?" asked Aberforth.

"Someone sent a doe Patronus to us!"

     "Brains like that, you could be a Death Eater, son. Haven't I just prove my 
Patronus is a goat?"

     "Oh," said Ron, "Yeah... well, I'm hungry!" he added defensively as his 
stomach gave an enormous rumble.

     "I got food," said Aberforth, and he sloped out of the room, reappearing 
moments later with a large

loaf of bread, some cheese, and a pewter jug of mead, which he set upon a small 
table in

front of the fire.

Ravenous, they ate and drank, and for a while there was sound of chewing.

     "Right then," said Aberforth when the had eaten their fill and Harry and 
Ron sat slumped dozily in

their chairs. "We need to think of the best way to get you out of here. Can't 
be done by night, you heard what

happens if anyone moves outdoors during darkness: Caterwauling Charm's set off, 
they'll be onto you like

bowtruckles on doxy eggs. I don't reckon I'll be able to pass of a stag as a 
goat a second time. Wait for daybreak

when curfew lifts, then you can put your Cloak back on and set out on foot. Get 
right out of Hogsmeade, up into

the mountains, and you'll be able to Disapparate there. Might see Hagrid. He's been 
hiding in a cave up there with Grawp ever since they tried to arrest him."

"We're not leaving," said Harry. "We need to get into Hogwarts."

"Don't be stupid, boy," said Aberforth.

"We've got to," said Harry.

     "What you've got to do," said Aberforth, leaning forward, "is to get as far 
from here as from here as you can."

     "You don't understand. There isn't much time. We've got to get into the castle. 
Dumbledore -1 mean, your brother - wanted us -"

     The firelight made the grimy lenses of Aberforth's glasses momentarily 
opaque, a bright flat white, and Harry remembered the blind eyes of the giant 
spider, Aragog.

     "My brother Albus wanted a lot of things," said Aberforth, "and people had 
a habit of getting hurt while he

was carrying out his grand plans. You get away from this school, Potter, and 
out of the country if you can. Forget

my brother and his clever schemes. He's gone where none of this can hurt him, and 
you don't owe him anything."

"You don't understand." said Harry again.

     "Oh, don't I? said Aberforth quietly. "You don't think I understood my own 
brother? Think you know Albus better than I did?"

     "I didn't mean that," said Harry, whose brain felt sluggish with exhaustion and from 
the surfeit of food and wine. "It's... he left me a job."

     "Did he now?" said Aberforth. "Nice job, I hope? Pleasant? Easy? Sort of thing 
you'd expect an unqualified wizard kid to be able to do without overstretching themselves?"

Ron gave a rather grim laugh. Hermione was looking strained.

"I-it's not easy, no," said Harry. "But I've got to -"

     "Got to? Why got to? He's dead, isn't he?" said Aberforth roughly. "Let it go, 
boy, before you follow him! Save yourself!"

"I can't."

"Why not?"

     "I -" Harry felt overwhelmed; he could not explain, so he took the offensive 
instead. "But you're fighting too, you're in the Order of the Phoenix -"

     "I was," said Aberforth. "The Order of the Phoenix is finished. 
You-Know-Who's won, it's over, and anyone

who's pretending different's kidding themselves. It'll never be safe for you 
here, Potter, he wants you too badly.

So go abroad, go into hiding, save yourself. Best take these two with you." He 
jerked a thumb at Ron and Hermione.

"They'll be in danger long as they live now everyone knows they've been working with 

"I can't leave," said Harry. "I've got a job -"

"Give it to someone else!"

"I can't. It's got to be me, Dumbledore explained it all -"

"Oh, did he now? And did he tell you everything, was he honest with you?"

     Harry wanted him with all his heart to say "Yes," but somehow the simple 
word would not rise to his lips, Aberforth seemed to know what he was thinking.

     "I knew my brother, Potter. He learned secrecy at our mother's knee. Secrets 
and lies, that's how we grew up, and Albus... he was a natural."

     The old man's eyes traveled to the painting of the girl over the 
mantelpiece. It was, now Harry looked around

properly, the only picture in the room. There was no photograph of Albus 
Dumbledore, nor of anyone else.

"Mr. Dumbledore" said Hermione rather timidly. "Is that your sister? Ariana?

"Yes." said Aberforth tersely. "Been reading Rita Skeeter, have you, missy?"

Even by the rosy light of the fire it was clear that Hermione had turned red.

"Elphias Doge mentioned her to us," said Harry, trying to spare Hermione.

     "That old berk," muttered Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. "Thought 
the sun shone out of my

brother's every office, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you three included, 
by the looks of it."

     Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the doubts and uncertainties 
about Dumbledore that had

riddled him for months now. He had made his choice while he dug Dobby's grave, 
he had decided to continue

along the winding, dangerous path indicated for him by Albus Dumbledore, to 
accept that he had not been told

everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust. He had no desire to 
doubt again; he did not want o hear

anything that would deflect him from his purpose. He met Aberforth's gaze, 
which was so

strikingly like his

brothers': The bright blue eyes gave the same impression that they were 
X-raying the

object of their scrutiny,

and Harry thought that Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised him for 

     "Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very much," said Hermione in a 
low voice.

     "Did he now?" said Aberforth. "Funny thing how many of the people my brother 
cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he'd left 'em well alone."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione breathlessly.

"Never you mind," said Aberforth.

     "But that's a really serious thing to say!" said Hermione. "Are you - are you 
talking about your sister?"

     Aberforth glared at her: His lips moved as if he were chewing the words he 
was holding back. Then he burst into speech.

     "When my sister was six years old, she was attacked, by three Muggle boys. 
They'd seen her doing magic,

spying through the back garden hedge: She was a kid, she couldn't control it, 
no witch or wizard can at that age.

What they saw, scared them, I expect. They forced their way through the hedge, and 
when she couldn't show them the trick, they got a bit carried away trying to stop 
the little freak doing it."

     Hermione's eyes were huge in the firelight; Ron looked slightly sick. 
Aberforth stood up, tall as Albus, and suddenly terrible in his anger and the 
intensity of his pain.

     "It destroyed her, what they did: She was never right again. She wouldn't 
use magic, but she couldn't get rid

of it; it turned inward and drove her mad, it exploded out of her when she 
couldn't control it, and at times she was strange and dangerous. But mostly she 
was sweet and scared and harmless.

     "And my father went after the bastards that did it," said Aberforth, "and 
attacked them. And they locked him

up in Azkaban for it. He never said why he'd done it, because the Ministry had 
known what Ariana had become,

she'd have been locked up in St. Mungo's for good. They'd have seen her as a 
serious threat to the International

Statute of Secrecy, unbalanced like she was, with magic exploding out of her at 
moments when she couldn't keep it in any longer.

     "We had to keep her safe and quiet. We moved house, put it about she was 
ill, and my mother looked after her, and tried to keep her calm and happy.

     "/was her favourite," he said, and as he said it, a grubby schoolboy 
seemed to look out through Aberforth's

wrinkles and wrangled beard. "Not Albus, he was always up in his bedroom when 
he was

home, reading his books

and counting his prizes, keeping up with his correspondence with "the most 

magical names of the day,"

Aberforth succored. "He didn't want to be bothered with her. She liked me best. 
I could

get her to eat when she wouldn't

do it for my mother, I could calm her down, when she was in one of her rages, 
and when

she was quiet, she used to

help me feed the goats.

     "Then, when she was fourteen... See, I wasn't there." said Aberforth. "If 
I'd been there, I could have calmed

her down. She had one of her rages, and my mother wasn't as young as she was, and 
... it was an accident. Ariana couldn't control it. But my mother was killed."

     Harry felt a horrible mixture of pity and repulsion; he did not want to 
hear any more, but Aberforth kept talking,

and Harry wondered how long it had been since he had spoken about this; 
whether, in fact, he had ever spoken about it.

     "So that put paid to Albus's trip round the world with little Doge. The 
pair of'em came home for my mother's

funeral and then Doge went off on his own, and Albus settled down as head of the 
family. Ha!"

Aberforth spat into the fire.

     "I'd have looked after her, I told him so, I didn't care about school, I'd 
have stayed home and done it.

He told me I had to finish my education and /ze'Jtake over from my mother. Bit 
of a comedown for Mr. Brilliant,

there's no prizes for looking after your half-mad sister, stopping her blowing up 
the house every other day. But he did all right for a few weeks . . . till he 

And now a positively dangerous look crept over Aberforth's face.

     "Grindelwald. And at last, my brother had an equal to talk to someone just 
as bright and talented he was. And

looking after Ariana took a backseat then, while they were hatching all their 
plans for a new Wizarding order and looking

for Hallows, and whatever else it was they were so interested in. Grand plans 
for the benefit of all Wizardkind, and if one

young girl neglected, what did that matter, when Albus was working for the 
greater gooal

     "But after a few weeks of it, I'd had enough, I had. It was nearly time 
for me to go hack to Hogwarts, so I told 'em,

both of 'em, face-to-face, like I am to you, now," and Aberforth looked 
downward Harry, and it took a little imagination to

see him as a teenager, wiry and angry, confronting his elder brother. "I told 
him, you'd better give it up now. You can't move her,

she's in no fit state, you can't take her with you, wherever it is you're 
planning to go,

when you're making your clever speeches,

trying to whip yourselves up a following. He didn't like that." said Aberforth, 
and his

eyes were briefly occluded by the fireflight on

the lenses of his glasses: They turned white and blind again. "Grindelwald 
didn't like that

at all. He got angry. He told me what a

stupid little boy I was, trying to stand in the way of him and my brilliant 
brother . . .

Didn't I understand, my poor sister wouldn't

have to be hidden once they'd changed the world, and led the wizards out of 
hiding, and

taught the Muggles their place?

     "And there was an argument. . . and I pulled my wand, and he pulled out 
his, and I had the Cruciatus Curse used on

me by my brother's best friend - and Albus was trying to stop him, and then all 
three of us were dueling, and the flashing lights and the bangs set her off, she 
couldn't stand it -"

     The color was draining from Aberforth's face as though he had suffered a 
mortal wound.

     " - and I think she wanted to help, but she didn't really know what she was 
doing, and I don't know which of us did it, it could have been any of us - and she was 

     His voice broke on the last word and he dropped down into the nearest 
chair. Hermione's face was wet with tears, and Ron

was almost as pale as Aberforth. Harry felt nothing but revulsion: He wished he 
had not heard it, wished he could wash is mind clean of it.

"I'm so . . . I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered.

"Gone," croaked Aberforth. "Gone forever."

He wiped his nose on hiss cuff and cleared his throat.

     " 'Course, Grindelwald scarpered. He had a bit of a track record already, 
back in his own country, and he didn't want Ariana

set to his account too. And Albus was free, wasn't he? Free of the burden of his 
sister, free to become the greatest wizard of the -"

"He was never free," said Harry.

"I beg your pardon?" said Aberforth.

     "Never," said Harry. "The night that your brother died, he drank a potion that 
drove him out of his mind. He started screaming, pleading with someone who wasn't there. 'Don't 
hurt them, please . . . hurt me instead.'"

     Ron and Hermione were staring at Harry. He had never gone into details 
about what had happened on the island on the lake:

The events that had taken place after he and Dumbledore had returned to 
Hogwarts had eclipsed it so thoroughly.

     "He thought he was back there with you and Grindelwald, I know he did," 
said Harry, remembering Dumbledore whispering, pleading.

"He thought he was watching Grindelwald hurting you and Ariana ... It was torture to 
him, if you'd seen him then, you wouldn't say he was free."

     Aberforth seemed lost in contemplation of his own knotted and veined hands. 
After a long pause he said. "How can you be sure, Potter,

that my brother wasn't more interested in the greater good than in you? How can you 
be sure you aren't dispensable, just like my little sister?"

A shard of ice seemed to pierce Harry's heart.

"I don't believe it. Dumbledore loved Harry," said Hermione.

     "Why didn't he tell him to hide, then? shot back Aberforth. "Why didn't he say 
to him, 'Take care of yourself, here's how to survive' ?"

     "Because," said Harry before Hermione could answer, "sometimes you've got to 
think about more than your own safety! Sometimes you've got to think about the greater good! This 
is war!"

"You're seventeen, boy!"

"I'm of age, and I'm going to keep fighting even if you've given up!"

"Who says I've given up?"

     "The Order of the Phoenix is finished," Harry repeated, "You-Know-Who's won, 
it's over, and anyone who's pretending different's kidding themselves."

"I don't say I like it, but it's the truth!"

     "No, it isn't." said Harry. "Your brother knew how to finish You-Know-Who 
and he passed the knowledge on to me. I'm going to keep going

until I succeed - or I die. Don't think I don't know how this might end. I've known 
it for years."

He waited for Aberforth to jeer or to argue, but he did not. He merely moved.

     "We need to get into Hogwarts," said Harry again. "If you can't help us, we'll 
wait till daybreak, leave you in peace, and try to find a way in ourselves. If you can help us - 
well, now would be a great time to mention it."

     Aberforth remained fixed in his chair, gazing at Harry with the eye, that 
were so extraordinarily like his brother's. At last he cleared his throat, got 
to his feet, walked around the little table, and approached the portrait of 

"You know what to do," he said.

     She smiled, turned, and walked away, not as people in portraits usually 
did, one of the sides of their frames, but along what seemed to

be a long tunnel painted behind her. They watched her slight figure retreating 
until finally she was swallowed by the darkness.

"Er - what - ?" began Ron.

     "There's only one way in now," said Aberforth. "You must know they've got 
all the old secret passageways covered at both ends, dementors

all around the boundary walls, regular patrols inside the school from what my 
sources tell me. The place has never been so heavily guarded.

How you expect to do anything once you get inside it, with Snape in charge and the 
Carrows as his deputies. . . well, that's your lookout, isn't it? You say you're 
prepared to die."

"But what. . . ?" said Hermione, frowning at Ariana's picture.

     A tiny white dot reappeared at the end of the painted tunnel, and now 
Ariana was walking back toward them, growing bigger and bigger

as she came. But there was somebody else with her now, someone taller than she 
was, who was limping along, looking excited. His hair was

longer than Harry had ever seen. He appeared and torn. Larger and larger the 
two figures

grew, until only their heads and shoulders filled the portrait.

Then the whole thing swang forward on the wall like a little door, and the 
entrance to a

real tunnel was revealed. And our of it, his hair overgrown,

his face cut, his robes ripped, clambered the real Neville Longbottom, who gave 
a roar of

delight, leapt down from the mantelpiece and yelled.

"I knew you'd come! I knew it, Harry!"

Chapter Twenty-Nine The Lost Diadem

"Neville -- what the -- how - ?"

     But Neville had spotted Ron and Hermione, and with yells of delight was hugging them 
too. The longer Harry looked at Neville, the worse he appeared: One of his eyes was 
swollen yellow and purple, there were gouge marks on his face, and his general air of 
unkemptness suggested that he had been living enough. Nevertheless, his battered visage 
shone with happiness as he let go of Hermione and said again, "I knew you'd come! 
Kept telling Seamus it was a matter of time!"

"Neville, what's happened to you?"

     "What? This?" Neville dismissed his injuries with a shake of the head. "This is nothing, 
Seamus is worse. You'll see. Shall we get going then? Oh," he turned to Aberforth, "Ab, there might 
be a couple more people no the way."

     "Couple more?" repeated Aberforth ominously. "What d'you mean, a couple more, 
Longbottom? There's a curfew and a Camwaulding Charm on the whole village!"

     "I know, that's why they'll be Apparating directly into the bar," said Neville. 
"Just send them down the passage when they get here, will you? Thanks a lot."

     Neville held out his hand to Hermione and helped her to climb up onto the 
mantelpiece and into the tunnel; Ron followed, then Neville. Harry addressed 

"I don't know how to thank you. You've saved our lives twice."

     "Look after 'em, then," said Aberforth gruffly. "I might not be able to save 
'em a third time."

     Harry chambered up onto the mantelpiece and through the hole behind 
Ariana's portrait. There were smooth stone steps on the other side: It looked 
as though the passageway had been there for years. Brass lamps hung from the 
walls and the earthy floor was worn and smooth; as they walked, their shadows 
rippled, fanlike, across the wall.

     "How long's this been here?" Ron asked as they set off. "It isn't on the 
Marauder's Map, is it Harry? I thought there were only seven passages in and out of school?"

     "They sealed off all of those before the start of the year," said Neville. "There's no 
chance of getting through any of them now, not with the curses over the entrances and Death Eaters and 
dementors waiting at the exits." He started walking backward, beaming, drinking them in. "Never 
mind that stuff ... Is it true? Did you break into Gringotts? Did you escape on a dragon? It's everywhere, 
everyone's talking about it, Terry Boot got beaten up by Carrow for yelling about it in the Great Hall at 

"Yeah, it's true," said Harry.

Neville laughed gleefully.

"What did you do with the dragon?"

"Released it into the wild," said Ron. "Hermione was all for keeping it as a 

"Don't exaggerate, Ron -"

     "But what have you been doing? People have been saying you've just been on the 
run, Harry, but I don't think so. I think you've been up to something."

     "You're right," said Harry, "but tell us about Hogwarts, Neville, we haven't 
heard anything."

     "It's been .... Well, it's not really like Hogwarts anymore," said Neville, the 
smile fading from his face as he spoke. "Do you know about the Carrows?"

"Those two Death Eaters who teach here?"

     "They do more than teach," said Neville. "They're in charge of all discipline. 
They like punishment, the Carrows."

"Like Umbridge?"

     "Nah, they make her look tame. The other teachers are all supposed to refer us 
to the Carrows if we do anything wrong. They don't, though, if they can avoid it. You can 
tell they all hate them as much as we do."

     "Amycus, the bloke, he teaches what used to be Defense Against the Dark Arts, 
except now it's just the Dark Arts. We're supposed to practice the Cruciatus Curse on 
people who've earned detentions - "


Harry, Ron, and Hermione's united voices echoed up and down the passage.

     "Yeah," said Neville. "That's how I got this one," he pointed at a particularly deep 
gash in his cheek, "I refused to do it. Some people are into it, though; Crabbe and Goyle love it. First 
time they've ever been top in anything, I expect."

     "Alecto, Amycus's sister, teaches Muggle Studies, which is compulsory for everyone. We've 
all got to listen to her explain how Muggles are like animals, stupid and dirty, and how they drive 
wizards into hiding by being vicious toward them, and how the natural order is being reestablished. 
I got this one," he indicated another slash to his face, "for asking her how much Muggle 
blood she and her brother have got."

     "Blimey, Neville," said Ron, "there's a time and a place for getting a smart 

     "You didn't see her," said Neville. "You wouldn't have stood it either. The 
thing is, it helps when people stand up to them, it gives everyone hope. I used to notice that when 
you did it, Harry."

     "But they've used you as a knife sharpener," said Ron, winding slightly as 
they passed a lamp and Neville's injuries were thrown into even greater relief.

Neville shrugged.

     "Doesn't matter. They don't want to spill too much pure blood, so they'll 
torture us a bit if we're mouthy but they won't actually kill us."

     Harry did not know what was worse, the things that Neville was saying or 
the matter-of-fact tone in which he said them.

     "The only people in real danger are the ones whose friends and relatives 
on the outside are giving trouble. They get taken hostage. Old Xeno Lovegood was 
getting a bit

too outspoken in The Quibbler, so they dragged Luna off the train on the way back 
for Christmas."

"Neville, she's all right, we've seen her -"

"Yeah, I know, she managed to get a message to me."

     From his pocket he pulled a golden coin, and Harry recognized it as one of 
the fake Galleons that Dumbledore's Army had used to send one another messages.

     "These have been great," said Neville, beaming at Hermione. "The Carrows never 
rumbled how we were communicating, it drove them mad. We used to sneak out at night and put 
graffiti on the walls: Dumbledore 's Army, Still Recruiting, stuff like that. Snape hated it."

"You used toT said Harry, who had noticed the past tense.

     "Well, it got more difficult as time went one," said Neville. "We lost Luna at 
Christmas, and Ginny never came back after Easter, and the three of us were sort of the leaders. 
The Carrows seemed to know I was behind a lot of it, so they started coming down on me hard, and 
then Michael Corner went and got caught releasing a first-year they'd chained up, and they tortured 
him pretty badly. That scared people off."

"No kidding," muttered Ron, as the passage began to slope upward.

     "Yeah, well, I couldn't ask people to go through what Michael did, so we 
dropped those kinds of stunts. But we were still fighting, doing underground stuff, right 
up until a couple of weeks ago. That's when they decided there was only one way to stop 
me, I suppose, and they went for Gran."

"They whatT said Harry, Ron, and Hermione together.

     "Yeah," said Neville, panting a little now, because the passage was climbing so steeply, "well, you can see 
their thinking. It had worked really well, kidnapping kids to force their relatives to behave. I s'pose it was only a matter of 
time before they did it the other way around. Thing was," he faced them, and Harry was astonished to see that he was 
grinning, "they bit off a bit more than they could chew with Gran. Little old witch living alone, they probably thought hey 
didn't need to send anyone particularly powerful. Anyway," Neville laughed, "Dawlish is still in St. Mungo's and Gran's 
on the run. She sent me a letter," he clapped a hand to the breast pocket of his robes, "telling me she was proud of 
me, that I'm my parent's son, and to keep it up."

"Cool," said Ron.

     "Yea," said Neville happily. "Only thing was, once they realized they had no 
hold over me, they decided Hogwarts could do without me after all. I don't know whether they were 
planning to kill me or send me to Azkaban, either way, I knew it was time to disappear."

     "But," said Ron, looking thoroughly confused, "aren't - aren't we heading 
straight back for Hogwarts?"

'"Course," said Neville. "You'll see. We're here."

     They turned a corner and there ahead of them was the end of the passage. 
Another short flight of steps led to a door just like the one hidden behind 
Ariana's portrait. Neville pushed it open and climbed through. As Harry 
followed, he heard Neville call out for unseen people:

"Look who it is! Didn't I tell you?"

     As Harry emerged into the room behind the passage, there were several screams and yells: "HARRY!" 
"It's Potter, it's POTTER!" "Ron!" "Hermione?'

     He had a confused impression of colored hangings, of lamps and many faces. 
The next moment, he, Ron, and Hermione were engulfed, hugged, pounded on the 
back, their hair ruffled, their hands shaken, by what seemed to be more than 
twenty people. They might have just won a Quidditch final.

     "Okay, okay, calm down!" Neville called, and as the crowd backed away, 
Harry was able to take in their surroundings.

     He did not recognize the dorm at all. It was enormous, and looked rather 
like the interior of a particularly sumptuous tree house, or perhaps a gigantic 
ship's cabin. Multicolored hammocks were strung from the ceiling and from the 
balcony that ran around the dark wood-paneled and windowless walls, which were 
covered in bright tapestry hangings. Harry saw the gold Gryffindor lion, 
emblazoned on scarlet; the black badger of Hufflepuff, set against yellow; and 
the bronze eagle of Ravenclaw, on blue. The silver and green of Slytherin alone 
were absent. There were bulging bookcases, a few broomsticks propped against 
the walls, and in the corner, a large wood-cased wireless.

"Where are we?"

     "Room of Requirement, of course!" said Neville. "Surpassed itself, hasn't it? 
The Carrows were chasing me, and I knew I had just one chance for a hideout: I managed to get 
through the door and this is what I found! Well, it wasn't exactly like this when I arrived, it was 
a load smaller, there was only one hammock and just Gryffindor hangings. But it's expanded as more 
and more of the D.A. have arrived."

"And the Carrows can't get in?" asked Harry, looking around for the door.

     "No," said Seamus Finnigan, whom Harry had not recognized until he spoke: Seamus's face 
was bruised and puffy. "It's a proper hideout, as long as one of us stays in here, they can't get 
at us, the door won't open. It's all down to Neville. He really gets this room. You've got to ask for 
exactly what you need - like, "I don't want any Carrow supporters to be able to get in' - and it'll 
do it for you! You've just got to make sure you close the loopholes. Neville's the man!"

     "It's quite straightforward, really," said Neville modestly. "I'd been in 
here about a day and a half, and getting really hungry, and wishing I could get something to 
eat, and that's when the passage to Hog's Head opened up. I went through it and met Aberforth. 
He's been providing us with food, because for some reason, that's the one thing the room 
doesn't really do.

     "Yeah, well, food's one of the five exceptions to Gamp's Law of Elemental 
Transfiguration," said Ron to general astonishment.

     "So we've been hiding out here for nearly two weeks," said Seamus, "and it just 
makes more hammocks every time we need room, and it even sprouted a pretty good bathroom once girls 
started turning up - "

     "?and thought they'd quite like to wash, yes," supplied Lavender Brown, 
whom Harry had not noticed until that point. Now that he looked around properly, he 
recognized many familiar faces. Both Patil twins were there, as were Terry Boot, Ernie 
Macmillan, Anthony Goldstein, and Michael Corner.

     "Tell us what you've been up to, though," said Ernie. "There've been so many rumors, 
we've been trying to keep up with you on Potterwatch" He pointed at the wireless. "You didn't break 
into Gringotts?"

"They did!" said Neville. "And the dragon's true too!"

There was a smattering of applause and a few whoops; Ron took a bow.

"What were you after?" asked Seamus eagerly.

     Before any of them could parry the question with one of their own, Harry 
felt a terrible, scorching pain in the lightning scar. As he turned his back 
hastily on the curious and delighted faces, the Room of Requirement vanished, 
and he was standing inside a ruined stone shack, and the rotting floorboards 
were ripped apart at his feet, a disinterred golden box lay open and empty 
beside the hole, and Voldemort's scream of fury vibrated inside his head.

     With an enormous effort he pulled out of Voldemort's mind again, back to 
where he stood, swaying, in the Room of Requirement, sweat pouring from his 
face and Ron holding him up.

     "Are you all right, Harry?" Neville was saying. "What to sit down? I expect 
you're tired, aren't ? ?"

     "No," said Harry. He looked at Ron and Hermione, trying to tell them 
without words that Voldemort had just discovered the loss of one of the other Horcruxes. 
Time was running out fast: If Voldemort chose to visit Hogwarts next, they would miss 
their chance.

     "We need to get going," he said, and their expressions told him that they 

"What are we going to do, then, Harry?" asked Seamus. "What's the plan?"

     "Plan?" repeated Harry. He was exercising all his willpower to prevent himself 
succumbing again to Voldemort's rage: His scar was still burning. "Well, there's something we 
- Ron, Hermione, and I - need to do, and then we'll get out of here."

Nobody was laughing or whooping anymore. Neville looked confused.

"What d'you mean, 'get out of here'?"

     "We haven't come back to stay," said Harry, rubbing his scar, trying to soothe the 
pain. "There's something important we need to do - "

"What is it?"

"I -1 can't tell you."

There was a ripple of muttering at this: Neville's brows contracted.

     "Why can't you tell us? It's something to do with fighting You-Know-Who, 

"Well, yeah - "

"Then we'll help you."

     The other members of Dumbledore's Army were nodding, some 
enthusiastically, others solemnly. A couple of them rose from their chairs to 
demonstrate their willingness for immediate action.

     "You don't understand," Harry seemed to have said that a lot in the last few hours. 
"We - we can't tell you. We've got to do it - alone."

"Why?" asked Neville.

     "Because ... "In his desperation to start looking for the missing Horcrux, or at least have a 
private discussion with Ron and Hermione about where they might commence their search. Harry found it 
difficult to gather his thoughts. His scar was still searing. "Dumbledore left the three of us a 
job," he said carefully, "and we weren't supposed to tell -1 mean, he wanted us to do it, just the 
three of us."

     "We're his army," said Neville. "Dumbledore's Army. We were all in it together, 
we've been keeping it going while you three have been off on your own -"

"It hasn't exactly been a picnic, mate," said Ron.

     "I never said it had, but I don't see why you can't trust us. Everyone in this 
room's been fighting and they've been driven in here because the Carrows were hunting 
them down. Everyone in here's proven they're loyal to Dumbledore - loyal to you."

     "Look," Harry began, without knowing what he was going to say, but it did 
not matter. The tunnel door had just opened behind him.

"We got your message, Neville! Hello you three, I thought you must be here!"

     It was Luna and Dean. Seamus gave a great roar of delight and ran to hug 
his best friend.

"Hi, everyone!" said Luna happily. "Oh, it's great to be back!"

"Luna," said Harry distractedly, "what are you doing here? How did you ? ?"

     "I sent for her," said Neville, holding up the fake Galleon. "I promised her 
and Ginny that if you turned up I'd let them know. We all thought that if you came back, it would 
mean revolution. That we were going to overthrow Snape and the Carrows."

     "Of course that's what it means," said Luna brightly. "Isn't it, Harry? We're 
going to fight them out of Hogwarts?"

     "Listen," said Harry with a rising sense of panic, "I'm sorry, but that's not 
what we came back for. There's something we've got to do, and then -"

"You're going to leave us in this mess?" demanded Michael Cornet.

     "No!" said Ron. "What we're doing will benefit everyone in the end, it's all 
about trying to get rid of You-Know-Who - "

"Then let us help!" said Neville angrily. "We want to be a part of it!"

     There was another noise behind them, and Harry turned. His heart seemed to 
fall: Ginny was now climbing through the hole in the wall, closely followed by 
Fred, George, and Lee Jordan. Ginny gave Harry a radiant smile: He had 
forgotten, he had never fully appreciated, how beautiful she was, but he had 
never been less pleased to see her.

     "Aberforth's getting a bit annoyed," said Fred, raising his hand in answer to 
several cries of greeting. "He wants a kip, and his bar's turned into a railway station."

     Harry's mouth fell open. Right behind Lee Jordan came Harry's old 
girlfriend, Cho Chang. She smiled at him.

     "I got the message," she said, holding up her own fake Galleon and she 
walked over to sit beside Michael Corner.

"So what's the plan, Harry?" said George.

     "There isn't one," said Harry, still disoriented by the sudden appearance 
of all these people, unable to take everything in while his scar was still burning so 

"Just going to make it up as we go along, are we? My favorite kind," said Fred.

     "You've got to stop this!" Harry told Neville. "What did you call them all back 
for? This is insane - "

     "We're fighting, aren't we?" said Dean, taking out his fake Galleon. "The 
message said Harry was back, and we were going to fight! I'll have to get a wand, though

"You haven't got a wand??" began Seamus. Ron turned suddenly to Harry. "Why can't they 
help?" "What?"

     "They can help." He dropped his voice and said, so that none of them could hear but 
Hermione, who stood between them, "We don't know where it is. We've got to find it fast. We 
don't have to tell them it's a Horcrux."

     Harry looked from Ron to Hermione, who murmured, "I think Ron's right. We don't even know 
what we're looking for, we need them." And when Harry looked unconvinced, "You don't have 
to do everything alone, Harry."

     Harry thought fast, his scar still prickling, his head threatening to 
split again. Dumbledore had warned him against telling anyone but Ron and 
Hermione about the Horcruxes. Secrets and lies, that's how we grew up, andAlbus 
...he was a natural... Was he turning into Dumbledore, keeping his secrets 
clutched to his chest, afraid to trust? But Dumbledore had trusted Snape, and 
where had that led? To murder at the top of the highest tower ...

    "All right," he said quietly to the other two. "Okay," he called to the 
room at large, and all noise ceased: Fred and George, who had been cracking jokes for the benefit 
of those nearest, fell silent, and all of the looked alert, excited.

     "There's something we need to find," Harry said. "Something - something that'll 
help us overthrow You-Know-Who. It's here at Hogwarts, but we don't know where. It might have 
belonged to Ravenclaw. Has anyone heard of an object like that? Has anyone come across something 
with her eagle on it, for instance?"

     He looked hopefully toward the little group of Ravenclaws, to Padma, 
Michael, Terry, and Cho, but it was Luna who answered, perched on the arm of 
Ginny's chair.

     "Well, there's her lost diadem. I told you about it, remember, Harry? The lost 
diadem of Ravenclaw? Daddy's trying to duplicate it."

     "Yeah, but the lost diadem," said Michael Corner, rolling his eyes, "is lost, 
Luna. That's sort of the point."

"When was it lost?" asked Harry.

     "Centuries ago, they say," said Cho, and Harry's heart sank. "Professor Flitwick says the 
diadem vanished with Ravenclaw herself. People have looked, but," she appealed to her fellow Ravenclaws. 
"Nobody's ever found a trace of it, have them?"

They all shook their heads.

"Sorry, but what is a diadem?" asked Ron.

     "It's a kind of crown," said Terry Boot. "Ravenclaw's was supposed to have 
magical properties, enhance the wisdom of the wearer."

"Yes, Daddy's Wrackspurt siphons - "

But Harry cut across Luna.

"And none of you have ever seen anything that looks like it?

     They all shook their heads again. Harry looked at Ron and Hermione and his 
own disappointment was mirrored back at him. An object that had been lost this 
long, and apparently without trace, did not seem like a good candidate for the 
Horcrux hidden in the castle ... Before he could formulate a new question, 
however, Cho spoke again.

     "If you'd like to see what the diadem's supposed to look like, I could take you 
up to our common room and show you, Harry. Ravenclaw's wearing it in her statue."

     Harry's scar scorched again: For a moment the Room of Requirement swam 
before him, and he saw instead the dark earth soaring beneath him and felt the 
great snake wrapped around his shoulders. Voldemort was flying again, whether 
to the

underground lake or here, to the castle, he did not know: Either way, there was 
hardly any time left.

     "He's on the move," he said quietly to Ron and Hermione. He glanced at Cho and then 
back at them. "Listen, I know it's not much of a lead, but I'm going to go look at this 
statue, at least find out what the diadem looks like. Wait for me here and keep, you know - the 
other one - safe."

     Cho had got to her feet, but Ginny said rather fiercely, "No, Luna will take 
Harry, won't you, Luna?"

     "Oooh, yes, I'd like to," said Luna happily, as Cho sat down again, 
looking disappointed.

"How do we get out?" Harry asked Neville.

"Over here."

     "He led Harry and Luna to a corner, where a small cupboard opened onto a steep staircase. 
"It comes out somewhere different every day, so they've never been able to find it," he said. 
"Only trouble is, we never know exactly where we're going to end up when we go out. Be careful, 
Harry, they're always patrolling the corridors at night."

"No problem," said Harry. "See you in a bit."

     He and Luna hurried up the staircase, which was long, lit by torches, and 
turned corners in unexpected places. At last they reached what appeared to be 
solid wall.

     "Get under here," Harry told Luna, pulling out the Invisibility Cloak and 
throwing it over both of them. He gave the wall a little push.

     It melted away at his touch and they slipped outside. Harry glanced back 
and saw that it had resealed itself at once. They were standing in a dark 
corridor. Harry pulled Luna back into the shadows, fumbled in the pouch around 
his neck, and took out the Marauder's Map. Holding it close to his nose he 
searched, and located his and Luna's dots at last.

     "We're up on the fifth floor," he whispered, watching filch moving away from them, a 
corridor ahead. "Come on, this way."

They crept off.

     Harry had prowled the castle at night many times before, but never had his 
heart hammered that fast, never had so much depended on his safe passage 
through the place. Through squares of moonlight upon the floor, past suits of 
armor whose helmets creaked at the sound of their soft footsteps, around 
corners beyond which who knew what lurked. Harry and Luna walked, checking the 
Marauder's Map whenever light permitted, twice pausing to allow a ghost to pass 
without drawing attention to themselves. He expected to encounter an obstacle 
at any moment; his worst fear was Peeves, and he strained his ears with every 
step to hear the first, telltale signs of the poltergeist's approach.

     "The way, Harry," breathed Luna, plucking his sleeve and pulling him 
toward a spiral staircase.

     They climbed in tight, dizzying circles; Harry had never been up here 
before. At last they reached a door. There was no handle and no keyhole: 
nothing but a plain expanse of aged wood, and a bronze knocker in the shape an 

     Luna reached out a pale hand, which looked eerie floating in midair, unconnected to 
arm or body. She knocked once, and in the silence it sounded to Harry like a cannon 
blast. At once the beak of the eagle opened, but instead of a bird's called, a soft, 
musical voice said, "Which came first, the phoenix or the flame?"

"Hmm ... What do you think, Harry?" said Luna, looking thoughtful.

"What? Isn't there a password?"

"Oh no, you've got to answer a question," said Luna.

"What if you get it wrong?"

     "Well, you have to wait for somebody who gets it right," said Luna. "That way 
you learn, you see?"

"Yeah ... Trouble is, we can't really afford to wait for anyone else, Luna."

     "No, I see what you mean," said Luna seriously. "Well then, I think the answer 
is that a circle has no beginning."

"Well reasoned," said the voice, and the door swung open.

     The deserted Ravenclaw common room was a wide, circular room, airier than 
any Harry had ever seen at Hogwarts. Graceful arched windows punctuated the 
walls, which were hung with blue-and-bronze silks. By day, the Ravenclaws would 
have a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains. The ceiling was domed and 
painted with stars, which were echoed in the midnight-blue carpet. There were 
tables, chairs, and bookcases, and in a niche opposite the door stood a tall 
statue of white marble.

     Harry recognized Rowena Ravenclaw from the bust he had seen at Luna's 
house. The statue stood beside a door that led, he guessed, to dormitories 
above. He strode right up to the marble woman, and she seemed to look back at 
him with a quizzical half smile on her face, beautiful yet slightly 
intimidating. A delicate-looking circlet had been reproduced in marble on top 
of her head. It was not unlike the tiara Fleur had worn at her wedding. There 
were tiny words etched into it. Harry stepped out from under the Cloak and 
climbed up onto Ravenclaw's plinth to read them.

"' Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure.'"

"Which makes you pretty skint, witless," said a cackling voice.

     Harry whirled around, slipped off the plinth, and landed on the floor. The 
sloping-shouldered figure of Alecto Carrow was standing before him, and even as 
Harry raised his wand, she pressed a stubby forefinger to the skull and snake 
branded on her forearm.

Chapter Thirty

The Sacking of Severus Snape

     The moment her finger touched the Mark, Harry's scar burned savagely, the 
starry room vanished from sight, and he was standing upon an outcrop of rock 
beneath a cliff, and the sea was washing around him and there was a triumph in 
his heart - They have the boy.

     A loud bang brought Harry back to where he stood. Disoriented, he raised 
his wand, but the witch before him was already falling forward; she hit the 
ground so hard that the glass in the bookcases tinkled.

     "I've never Stunned anyone except in our D.A. lessons," said Luna, sounding mildly 
interested. "That was noisier than I though it would be."

     And sure enough, the ceiling had begun to tremble Scurrying, echoing 
footsteps were growing louder from behind the door leading to the dormitories. 
Luna's spell had woken Ravenclaws sleeping above.

"Luna, where are you? I need to get under the Cloak!"

     Luna's feet appeared out of nowhere,; he hurried to her side and she let 
the Cloak fall back over them as the door opened and a stream of Ravenclaws, 
all in their nightclothes, flooded into the common room, there were gasps and 
cries of surprise as they saw Alecto lying there unconscious. Slowly they 
shuffled in around her, a savage beast that might wake at any moment and attack 
them. Then one brave little first-year darted up to her and prodded her 
backside with his big toe.

"I think she might be dead!" he shouted with delight.

     "Oh look," whispered Luna happily, as the Ravenclaws crowded in around Alecto. 
"They're pleased!"

"Yeah... great... "

     Harry closed his eyes, and as his scar throbbed he chose to sink again 
into Voldemort's mind.... He was moving along the tunnel into the first 
cave.... He had chosen to make sure of the locker before coming...but that 
would not take him long....

     There was a rap on the common room door and every Ravenclaw froze. From the other 
side, Harry heard the soft, musical voice that issued from the eagle door knocker: 
"Where do Vanished objects go?"

     "I dunno, do I? Shut it!" snarled an uncouth voice that Harry knew was that of the 
Carrow brother , Amycus, "Alecto? Alecto? Are you there? Have you got him? Open the door!"

     The Ravenclaws were whispering amongst themselves, terrified. Then without 
warning, there came a series of loud bangs, as though somebody was firing a gun 
into the door.

     "ALECTO! If he comes, and we haven't got Potter ?d'you want to go the same way 
as the Malfoys? ANSWER ME!" Amycus bellowed, shaking the door for all he was worth, 
but still it did not open. The Ravenclaws were all backing away, and some of the most 
frightened began scampering back up the stair case to their beds. Then, just as Harry was 
wondering whether he ought not to blast open the door and Stun Amycus before the Death 
Eater could do anything else, a second, most familiar voice rang out beyond the door.

"May I ask what you are doing, Professor Carrow?"

     "Trying?to get? through this damned? door!" shouted Amycus. "Go and get 
Flitwick! Get him to open it, now!"

     "But isn't your sister in there" asked Professor McGonagall. "Didn't Professor 
Flitwick let her in earlier this evening, at your urgent request?   Perhaps she could open the door 
for you? Then you needn't wake up half the castle."

"She ain't answering, you old besom!  You open it! Garn! Doit, now!"

     "Certainly, if you wish it," said Professor McGonagall, with awful 
coldness, There was a genteel tap of the knocker and the musical voice asked again.

"Where do Vanished objects go?"

"Into non being, which is to say, everything," replied Professor McGonagall.

"Nicely phrased," replied the eagle door knocker, and the door swung open.

     The few Ravenclaws who had remained behind sprinted for the stairs as 
Amycus burst over the threshold, brandishing his wand. Hunched like his sister, 
he had a pallid, doughy face and tiny eyes, which fell at once on Alecto, 
sprawled motionless on the floor. He let out a yell of fury and fear.

     "What've they done, the little whelps?" he screamed. "I'll Cruciate the lot of 'em till 
they tell me who did it?and what's the Dark Lord going to say?" he shrieked, standing over his sister 
and smacking himself on the forehead with his fist, "We haven't got him, and they've gone and killed 

     "She's only Stunned," said Professor McGonagall impatiently, who had stooped down to 
examine Alecto. "She'll be perfectly all right."

     "No she bludgering well won't!" bellowed Amycus. "Not after the Dark Lord gets 
hold of her! She's gone and sent for him, I felt me Mark burn, and he thinks we've got Potter!"

     '"Got Potter'?" said Professor McGonagall sharply, "What do you mean, 'got 

     "He told us Potter might try and get inside Ravenclaw Tower, and to send for 
him if we caught him!"

     "Why would Harry Potter try to get inside Ravenclaw Tower! Potter belongs in my 

     Beneath the disbelief and anger, Harry heard a little strain of pride in 
her voice and affection for Minerva McGonagall gushed up inside him.

"We was told he might come in here!" said Carrow. "I dunno why, do I?"

     Professor McGonagall stood up and her beady eyes swept the room. Twice 
they passed right over the place where Harry and Luna stood.

     "We can push it off on the kids," said Amycus, his pig like face suddenly crafty. "Yeah, 
that's what we'll do. We'll say Alecto was ambushed by the kids, them kids up there" ? he looked up at 
the starry ceiling toward the dormitories ? " and we'll say they forced her to pres her Mark, and that's 
why he got a false alarm.... He can punish them. Couple of kids more or less, what's the difference?"

     "Only the difference between truth and lied, courage and cowardice," said Professor 
McGonagall, who had turned pale, "a difference, in short, which you and your sister seem 
unable to appreciate. But let me make one thing very clear. You are not going to pass off y9our 
many ineptitudes on the students of Hogwarts. I shall not permit it."

"Excuse me?"

     Amycus moved forward until he was offensively close to Professor 
McGonagall, his face within inches of hers. She refused to back away, but 
looked down at him as if he were something disgusting she had found stuck to 
the lavatory seat.

     "It's not a case of what you'll permit, Minerva McGonagall. Your time's over. 
It's us what's in charge here now, and you'll back me up or you'll pay the price."

And he spat in her face.

     Harry pulled the Cloak off himself, raised his wand, and said, "You shouldn't 
have done that."

As Amycus spun around, Harry shouted, "Crucio!"

     The Death Eater was lifted off his feet. He writhed through the air like a drowning man, 
thrashing and howling in pain, and then, with a crunch and a shattering of glass, he smashed into 
the front of a bookcase and crumpled, insensible, to the floor. "I see what Bellatrix 
meant," said Harry, the blood thundering through his brain, "you need to really mean 

     "Potter!" whispered Professor McGonagall, clutching her heart. "Potter?you're here! 
What?? How??" She struggled to pull herself together. "Potter, that was foolish!"

"He spat at you," said Harry.

"Potter, I ? that was very ? gallant of you ? but don't you realize --?"

     "Yeah, I do," Harry assured her. Somehow her panic steadied him. "Professor 
McGonagall, Voldemort's on the way."

     "Oh, are we allowed to say the name now?" asked Luna with an air of 
interest, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak. The appearance of a second outlaw seemed to 
overwhelm Professor McGonagall, who staggered backward and fell into a nearby chair, 
clutching at the neck of her old tartan dressing gown.

     "I don't think it makes any difference what we call him," Harry told Luna. "He 
already knows where I am."

     In a distant part of Harry's brain, that part connected to the angry, 
burning scar, he could see Voldemort sailing fast over the dark lake in the 
ghostly green boat.... He had nearly reached the island where the stone basin 

     "You must flee," whispered Professor McGonagall, "Now Potter, as quickly as you 

     "I can't," said Harry, "There's something I need to do. Professor, so you know 
where the diadem of Ravenclaw is?"

     "The d-diadem of Ravenclaw? Of course not ? hasn't it been lost for centuries?" She 
sat up a little straighter "Potter, it was madness, utter madness, for you to enter this 

     "I had to," said Harry. "Professor, there's something hidden here that I'm 
supposed to find, and it could be the diadem? if I could just speak to Professor Flitwick-


     There was a sound of movement, of clinking glass. Amycus was coming round. Before 
Harry or Luna could act, Professor McGonagall rose to her feet, pointed her wand at the 
groggy Death Eater, and said, "Imperio. "

     Amycus got up, walked over to his sister, picked up her wand, then 
shuffled obediently to Professor McGonagall and handed it over along with his 
own. Then he lay down on the floor beside Alecto.   Professor McGonagall waved 
her wand again, and a length of shimmering silver rope appeared out of thin air 
and snaked around the Carrows, binding them tightly together.

     "Potter," said Professor McGonagall, turning to face him again with superb 
indifference to the Carrows' predicament, "if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named does indeed know that 
you are here?"

     As she said it, a wrath that was like physical pain blazed through Harry, 
setting his scar on fire, and for a second he looked down upon a basin whose 
potion had turned clear, and saw that no golden locket lay safe beneath the 

     "Potter, are you all right." said a voice, and Harry came back. He was 
clutching Luna's shoulder to steady himself.

     "Time's running out, Voldemort's getting nearer, Professor, I'm acting on 
Dumbledore's orders, I must find what he wanted me to find! But we've got to get the 
students out while I'm searching the castle? It's me Voldemort wants, but he won't 

about killing a few more or less, not now?" not now he knows I'm attacking 
Horcruxes, Harry finished the sentence in his head.

     "You're acting on Dumbledore's orders?" she repeated with a look of 
dawning wonder. Then she drew herself up to her fullest height.

     "We shall secure the school against He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named while you search 
for this ? this object."

"Is that possible?"

     "I think so," said Professor McGonagall dryly, "we teachers are rather good at 
magic, you know. I am sure we will be able to hold him off for a while if we all put our best 
efforts into it. Of course, something will have to be done about Professor Snape?"

"Let me ?"

     "?and if Hogwarts is about to enter a state of siege, with the Dark Lord at the 
gates, it would indeed be advisable to take as many innocent people out of the way as 
possible. With the Floo Network under observation, and Apparition impossible within the 

     "There's a way," said Harry quickly, and he explained about the passageway 
leading into the Hog's Head.

"Potter, we're talking about hundreds of students?"

     "I know, Professor, but if Voldemort and the Death Eaters are concentrating on 
the school boundaries they won't be interested in anyone who's Disapparating out of Hog's 

     "There's something in that," she agreed. She pointed her wand at the Carrows, and a 
silver net fell upon their bound bodies, tied itself around them, and hoisted them into the air, 
where they dangled beneath the blue-and-gold ceiling like two large, ugly sea creatures. 
"Come. We must alert the other Heads of House. You'd better put that Cloak back on."

     She marched toward the door, and as she did so she raised her wand. From 
the tip burst three silver cats with spectacle markings around their eyes, the 
Patronuses ran sleekly ahead, filling the spiral staircase with silvery light, 
as Professor McGonagall, Harry, and Luna hurried back down.

     Along the corridors they raced, and one by one the Patronuses left them. 
Professor McGonagall's tartan dressing gown rustled over the floor, and Harry 
and Luna jogged behind her under the Cloak.

     They had descended two more floors when another set of quiet joined theirs. Harry, 
whose scar was still prickling, heard them first. He felt in the pouch around his neck 
for the Marauder's Map, but before he could take it our, McGonagall too seemed to become 
aware of their company. She halted, raised her wand ready to duel, and said, "Who's 

"It is I," said a low voice.

From behind a suit of armor stepped Severus Snape.

     Hatred boiled up in Harry at the sight of him. He had forgotten the 
details of Snape's appearance in the magnitude of his crimes, forgotten how his 
greasy black hair hung in curtains around his thin face, how his black eyes had 
a dead, cold look. He was not wearing nightclothes, but was dressed in his 
usual black cloak, and he too was holding his wand ready for a fight.

"Where are the Carrows?" he asked quietly.

"Wherever you told them to be, I expect, Severus," said Professor McGonagall.

     Snape stepped nearer, and his eyes flitted over Professor McGonagall into 
the air around her, as if he knew that Harry was there. Harry held his wand up 
too, ready to attack.

     "I was under the impression," said Snape, "That Alecto had apprehended an 

"Really?" said Professor McGonagall. "And what gave you that impression?"

     Snape mad a slight flexing movement of his left arm, where the Dark Mark 
was branded into his skin.

     "Oh, but naturally," said Professor McGonagall. "You Death Eaters have your own 
private means of communication, I forgot."

     Snape pretended not to have heard her. His eyes were still probing the air 
all about her, and he was moving gradually closer, with an air of hardly 
noticing what he was doing.

"I did not know that it was your night to patrol the corridors Minerva."

"You have some objection?"

"I wonder what could have brought you out of our bed at this late hour?"

"I thought I heard a disturbance," said Professor McGonagall.

"Really? But all seems calm."

Snape looked into her eyes.

"Have you seen Harry Potter, Minerva? Because if you have. I must insist?"

     Professor McGonagall moved faster than Harry could have believed. Her wand 
slashed through the air and for a split second Harry thought that Snape must 
crumple, unconscious, but the swiftness of his Shield Charm was such that 
McGonagall was thrown off balance. =She brandished her wand at a touch on the 
wall and it flew out of its bracket. Harry, about to curse Snape, was forced to 
pull Luna out of the way of the descending flames, which became a ring of fire 
that filled the corridor and flew like a lasso at Snape?

     Then it was no longer fire, but a great black serpent that McGonagall 
blasted to smoke, which re-formed and solidified in seconds to become a swarm 
of pursuing daggers. Snape avoided them only by forcing the suit of armor in 
front of him, and with echoing clangs the daggers sank, one after another, into 
its breast?

     "Minerva!" said a squeaky voice, and looking behind him, still shielding 
Luna from flying spells, Harry saw Professors Flitwick and Sprout sprinting up the 
corridor toward them in their nightclothes, with the enormous Professor Slughorn panting 
along at the rear.

     "No!" squealed Flitwick, raising his wand. "You'll do no more murder at 

     Flitwick's spell hit the suit of armor behind which Snape had taken shelter. With a 
clatter it came to life. Snape struggled free of the crushing arms and sent it flying 
back toward his attackers. Harry and Luna had to dive sideways to avoid it as it smashed 
into the wall and shattered. When Harry looked up again, Snape was in full flight, 
McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout all thundering after him. He hurtled through a classroom 
door and, moments later, he heard McGonagall cry, "Coward! COWARD!"

"What's happened, what's happened?" asked Luna.

     Harry dragged her to her feet and they raced along the corridor, trailing 
the Invisibility Cloak behind them, into the deserted classroom where 
Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and Sprout were standing at a smashed window.

"He jumped," said Professor McGonagall as Harry and Luna ran into the room.

     "You mean he's dead?" Harry sprinted to the window, ignoring Flitwick's 
and Sprout's yells of shock at his sudden appearance.

     "No, he's not dead," said McGonagall bitterly. "Unlike Dumbledore, he was still 
carrying a wand... and he seems to have learned a few tricks from his master."

     With a tingle of horror, Harry saw in the distance a huge, bat like shape 
flying through the darkness toward the perimeter wall.

     There were heavy footfalls behind them, and a great deal of puffing. 
Slughorn had just caught up.

     "Harry!" he panted, massaging his immense chest beneath his emerald-green silk 
pajamas. "My dear boy... what a surprise...Minerva, do please explain... Severus.. 

     "Our headmaster is taking a short break," said Professor McGonagall, 
pointing at the Snape-shaped hole in the window.

     "Professor!" Harry shouted his hand on his forehead, He could see the 
Inferi-filled lake sliding beneath him, and he felt a ghostly green boat bump into the 
underground shore, and Voldemort lept from it with murder in his heart?

"Professor, we've got to barricade the school, he's coming now!"

    "Very well. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is coming," she told the other teachers. Sprout 
and Flitwick gasped. Slughorn let out a low groan. "Potter has work to do in the castle on 
Dumbledore's orders. We need to put in place every protection of which we are capable while Potter 
does what he needs to do."

     "You realize , of course, that nothing we do will be able to keep out 
You-Know-Who indefinitely?" squeaked Flitwick.

"But we can hold him up." said Professor Sprout.

     "Thank you, Pomona," said Professor McGonagall, and between the two witches 
there passed a look of grim understanding.   I suggest we establish basic protection around 
the place, then gather our students and meet in the Great Hall. Most must be evacuated, though 
if any of those who are over age wish to stay and fight, I think they ought to be given the 

     "Agreed," said Professor Sprout, already hurrying toward the door. "I shall 
meet you in the Great Hall in twenty minutes with my House."

     And as she jogged out of sight, they could hear her muttering, "Tentacula, 
Devil's Snare. And Snargaluff pods...yes, I'd like to see the Death Eaters fighting 

     I can act from here," said Flitwick, and although he could barely see out 
of it, he pointed his wand through the smashed window and started muttering 
incantations of great complexity. Harry heard a weird rushing noise, as though 
Flitwick had unleashed the power of the wind into the grounds.

     "Professor," Harry said, approaching the little Charms master. "Professor, I'm 
sorry to interrupt, but this is important. Have you got any idea where the diadem of Ravenclaw 

     "?Protego Horribillis?the diadem of Ravenclaw?" squeaked Flitwick. "A little 
extra wisdom never goes amiss, Potter, but I hardly think it would be much use in this 

"I only meant ? do you know where it is? Have you ever seen it?"

"Seen it" Nobody has seen it in living memory! Long since lost, boy."

     Harry felt a mixture of desperate disappointment and panic. What, then, 
was the Horcrux?

     "We shall meet you and your Ravenclaws in the Great Hall, Filius!" said 
Professor McGonagall, beckoning to Harry and Luna to follow her.

They had just reached the door when Slughorn rumbled into speech.

     "My word," he puffed, pale and sweaty, his walrus mustache aquiver. "What a 
to-do! I'm not at all sure whether this is wise, Minerva. He is bound to find a way in, you know, 
and anyone who has tried to delay him will be in the most grievous peril?"

     "I shall expect you and the Slytherins in the Great Hall in twenty minutes also." 
said Professor McGonagall. "If you wish to leave with your students, we shall not stop you. 
But if any of you attempt to sabotage our resistance or take up arms against us within this castle, 
then, Horace, we duel to kill."

"Minerva!" he said, aghast.

     "The time has come for Slytherin House to decide upon its loyalties," interrupted 
Professor McGonagall. "Go and wake your students, Horace."

     Harry did not stay to watch Slughorn splutter. He and Luna stayed after 
Professor McGonagall, who had taken up a position in the middle of the corridor 
and raised her wand.

"Piertotum?oh, for heaven's sake, Filch, not now?"

     The aged caretaker had just come hobbling into view, shouting "Students out of 
bed! Students in the corridors!"

     "They're supposed to be you blithering idiot!" shouted McGonagall. "Now go and 
do something constructive! Find Peeves!"

'P-Peeves?" stammered Filch as though he had never heard the name before.

     "Yes, Peeves, you fool, Peeves! Haven't you been complaining about him for 
a quarter of a century? Go and fetch him, at once.

     Filch evidently thought Professor McGonagall had taken leave of her 
senses, but hobbled away, hunch-shouldered, muttering under his breath.

     "And now?Piertotum Locomatorf cried Professor McGonagall. And all along 
the corridor the statues and suits of armor jumped down from their plinths, and from 
the echoing crashes from the floors above and below, Harry knew that their fellows 
throughout the castle had done the same.

     "Hogwarts is threatened!" shouted Professor McGonagall. "Man the boundaries, 
protect us, do your duty to our school!"

     Clattering and yelling, the horde of moving statues stampeded past Harry, 
some of them smaller, others larger than life. There were animals too, and the 
clanking suits of armor brandished swords and spiked balls on chains.

     "Now, Potter," said McGonagall., "you and Miss Lovegood had better return to 
your friends and bring them to the Great Hall ? I shall rouse the other Gryffindors."

     They parted at the top of the next staircase, Harry and Luna turning back 
toward the concealed entrance to the Room of Requirement. As they ran, they met 
crowds of

students, most wearing traveling cloaks over their pajamas, being shepherded 
down to the Great Hall by teachers and prefects.

"That was Potter!"

"Harry Potter!"

"It was him, I swear, I just saw him!"

     "But Harry did not look back, and at last they reached the entrance to the 
Room of Requirement, Harry leaned against the enchanted wall, which opened to admit 
them, and he and Luna sped back down the steep staircase.


     As the room came into view, Harry slipped down a few stairs in shock. It 
was packed, far more crowded than when he had last been in there. Kingsley and 
Lupin were looking up at him, as were Oliver Wood, Katie Bell, Angelina Johnson 
and Alicia Spinnet, Bill and Fleur, and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

"Harry, what's happening?" said Lupin, meeting him at the foot of the stairs.

     "Voldemort's on his way, they're barricading he school?Snape's run for 
it?What are you doing here? How did you know?

     "We sent messages to the rest of Dumbledore's Army," Fred explained. "You 
couldn't expect everyone to miss the fun, Harry, and the D.A. let the Order of the Phoenix know, 
and it all kind of snowballed."

"What first, Harry?" called George. "What's going on?"

     "They're evacuating the younger kids and everyone's meeting in the Great Hall to get 
organized," Harry said. "We're fighting."

     There was a great roar and a surge toward the stairs, he was pressed back 
against he wall as they ran past hi, the mingled members of the Order of the 
Phoenix, Dumbledore's Army, and Harry's old Quidditch team, all with their 
wands drawn, heading up into the main castle.

     "Come on, Luna," Dean called as he passed, holding out his free hand, she 
took it and followed him back up the stairs.

     The crowd was thinning. Only a little knot of people remained below in the 
Room of Requirement, and Harry joine3d them. Mrs. Weasley was struggling with 
Ginny. Around them stood Lupin, Fred, George, Bill and Fleur.

     "You're underage!" Mrs. Weasley shouted at her daughter as Harry approached "I 
won't permit it!  The boys, yes, but you, you've got to go home!"

"I won't!"

"Ginny's hair flew as she pulled her arm out of her mother's grip.

"I'm in Dumbledore's Army?"

"A teenagers' gang!"

     "A teenagers' gang that's about to take him on, which no one else has dared to 
do!" said Fred.

     "She's sixteen!" shouted Mrs. Weasley. "She's not old enough! What you two were 
thinking bringing her with you?"

Fred and George looked slightly ashamed of themselves.

     Mom's right, Ginny," said Bill gently. "You can't do this. Everyone underage 
will have to leave, it's only right."

     "I can't go home!" Ginny shouted, angry tears sparkling in her eyes, "my whole 
family's here, I can't stand waiting there alone and not knowing and --"

     Her eyes met Harry's for the first time.  She looked at him beseechingly, 
but he shook his head and she turned away bitterly.

     "Fine," she said, staring at the entrance to the tunnel back to the Hog's Head. 
"I'll say good-by now, then, and?"

     There was a scuffling and a great thump. Someone else had clambered out of the 
tunnel, overbalanced slightly, and fallen. He pulled himself up no the nearest chair, 
looked around through lopsided horn-rimmed glasses, and said, "Am I too late? Has it 
started. I only just found out, so I ? I ?"

     Percy spluttered into silence. Evidently he had not expected to run into most of his 
family. There was a long moment of astonishment, broken by Fleur turning to Lupin and 
saying, in a wildly transparent attempt to break the tension. "So? 'ow eez leetle 

     Lupin blinked at her, startled. The silence between the Weasleys seemed to 
be solidifying, like ice.

     "I ? oh yes? he's fine!" Lupin said loudly, "yes, Tonks is with him? at her 
mother's ?"

Percy and the other Weasleys were still staring at one another, frozen.

     "Here, I've got a picture?" Lupin shouted, pulling a photograph from 
inside his jacket and showing it to Fleur and Harry, who saw a tiny baby with a tuft of 
bright turquoise hair, waving fat fists at the camera.

     "I was a fool!" Percy roared, so loudly that Lupin nearly dropped his photograph. 
"I was an idiot, I was a pompous prat, I was a - a --"

"Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron," said Fred.

Percy swallowed.

"Yes, I was!"

"Well, you can't say fairer than that," said Fred, holding his hand out to 

     Mrs. Weasley burst into tears,. She ran forward, pushed Fred aside, and 
pulled Percy into a strangling hug, while he patted her on the back, his eyes 
on his father.

"I'm sorry, Dad," Percy said.

Mr. Weasley blinked rather rapidly, then he too hurried to hug his son.

"What made you see sense, Perce?" inquired George.

     "It's been coming on for a while," said Percy, mopping his eyes under his glasses 
with a corner of his traveling cloak. "But I had to find a way out and it's not so easy at the 
Ministry, they're imprisoning traitors all the time. I managed to make contact with Aberforth and 
he tipped me off ten minutes ago that Hogwarts was going to make a fight of it, so here I am."

     "Well, we do look to our prefects to take a lead at times such as these," said 
George in a good imitation of Percy's most pompous manner. "Now let's get upstairs and fight, 
or all the good Death Eaters'll be taken."

     "So, you're my sister in-law now?" Said Percy, shaking hands with Fleur as 
they hurried off toward the staircase with Bill, Fred, and George.

"Ginny!" barked Mrs. Weasley.

     Ginny had been attempting, under cover of the reconciliations to sneak 
upstairs too.

     "Molly, how about this," said Lupin. "Why doesn't Ginny stay here , then at 
least she'll be on the scene and know what's going on, but she won't be in the middle of the 

CCT     55

     "That's a good idea," said Mr. Weasley firmly, " Ginny, you stay in this room, 
you hear me?"

     Ginny did not seem to like the idea much, but under her father's unusually 
stern gaze, she nodded. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley and Lupin headed off to the stairs 
as well.

"Where's Ron?" asked Harry, "Where's Hermione?"

     "They must have gone up the Great Hall already," Mr. Weasley called over 
his shoulder.

" I didn't see them pass me," said Harry.

"They said something about a bathroom," said Ginny, "not long after you left."

"A bathroom?"

     Harry strode across the room to an open door leading off the Room of 
Requirement and checked the bathroom beyond. It was empty.

"You're sure they said bath??"

     But then his scar seared and the Room of Reqluirement vanished. He was 
looking through the high wrought-iron gates with winged boats on pillars at 
either side, looking through the dark grounds toward the castle, which was 
ablaze with lights. Nagini lay draped over his shoulders. He was possessed of 
that cold, cruel sense of purpose that preceded murder.

Chapter Thirty-One The Battle of Hogwarts

     The enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was dark and scattered with stars, 
and below it the four long House tables were lined with disheveled students, 
some in traveling cloaks, others in dressing gowns. Here and there shone the 
pearly white figures of the school ghosts. Every eye, living and dead was fixed 
upon Professor McGonagall, who was speaking from the raised platform at the top 
of the Hall. Behind her stood the remaining teaches, including the palomino 
centaur, Firenze, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix who had arrived 
to fight.

     "...evacuation will be overseen by Mr. Filch and Madame Pomfrey. Prefects, 
when I give the word, you will organize your House and take your charges in orderly 
fashion to the evacuation point.

     Many of the students looked petrified. However, as Harry skirted the walls, scanning 
the Gryffindor table for Ron and Hermione, Ernie Macmillan stood up at the Hufflepuff 
table and shouted; "And what if we want to stay and fight?"

There was a smattering of applause.

"If you are of age, you may stay." said Professor McGonagall.

     "What about our things?" called a girl at the Ravenclaw table. "Our trunks, our 

     "We have no time to collect possessions." said Professor McGonagall. "The 
important thing is to get you out of here safely."

"Where's Professor Snape?" shouted a girl from the Slytherin table.

     "He has, to use the common phrase, done a bunk." replied Professor 
McGonagall and a great cheer erupted from the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws.

     Harry moved up the Hall alongside the Gryffindor table, still looking for 
Ron and Hermione. As he passed, faces turned in his direction, and a great deal 
of whispering broke out in his wake.

     "We have already placed protection around the castle," Professor McGonagall was 
saying, "but it is unlikely to hold for very long unless we reinforce it. I must ask you, 
therefore, to move quickly and calmly, and do as your prefects -"

     But her final words were drowned as a different voice echoed throughout 
the Hall. It was high, cold, and clear. There was no telling from where it 
came. It seemed to issue from the walls themselves. Like the monster it had 
once commanded, it might have lain dormant there for centuries.

     "I know that you are preparing to fight." There were screams amongst the students, 
some of whom clutched each other, looking around in terror for the source of the sound.  "Your 
efforts are futile. You cannot fight me. I do not want to kill you. I have great respect for the 
teachers of Hogwarts. I do not want to spill magical blood."

     There was silence in the Hall now, the kind of silence that presses 
against the eardrums, that seems too huge to be contained by walls.

     "Give me Harry Potter," said Voldemort's voice, "and they shall not be 
harmed. Give me Harry Potter and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter and 
you will be rewarded.

"You have until midnight."

     The silence swallowed them all again. Every head turned, every eye in the place 
seemed to have found Harry, to hold him forever in the glare of thousands of invisible 
beams. Then a figure rose from the Slytherin table and he recognized Pansy Parkinson as 
she raised a shaking arm and screamed, "But he's there! Potter's there. Someone grab 

     Before Harry could speak, there was a massive movement. The Gryffindors in 
front of him had risen and stood facing, not Harry, but the Slytherins. Then 
the Hufflepuffs stood, and almost at the same moment, the Ravenclaws, all of 
them with their backs to Harry, all of them looking toward Pansy instead, and 
Harry, awestruck and overwhelmed, saw wands emerging everywhere, pulled from 
beneath cloaks and from under sleeves.

     "Thank you, Miss Parkinson." said Professor McGonagall in a clipped voice. "You 
will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow."

     Harry heard the grinding of the benches and then the sound of the 
Slytherins trooping out on the other side of the Hall.

"Ravenclaws, follow on!" cried Professor McGonagall.

     Slowly the four tables emptied. The Slytherin table was completely 
deserted, but a number of older Ravenclaws remained seated while their fellows 
filed out; even more Hufflepuffs stayed behind, and half of Gryffindor remained 
in their seats, necessitating Professor McGonagall's descent from the teachers' 
platform to chivvy the underage on their way.

"Absolutely not, Creevey, go! And you, Peakes!"

Harry hurried over to the Weasleys, all sitting together at the Gryffindor 

"Where are Ron and Hermione?"

"Haven't you found -?" began Mr. Weasley, looking worried.

     But he broke off as Kingsley had stepped forward on the raised platform to 
address those who had remained behind.

     "We've only got half an half an hour until midnight, so we need to act fast. A battle plan has been 
agreed between the teachers of Hogwarts and the Order of the Phoenix. Professors Flitwick, Sprout and 
McGonagall are going to take groups of fighters up to the three highest towers - Ravenclaw, Astronomy, and 
Gryffindor - where they'll have good overview, excellent positions from which to work spells. Meanwhile 
Remus" - he indicated Lupin - "Arthur" - he pointed toward Mr. Weasley, sitting at the 
Gryffindor table - "and I will take groups into the grounds. We'll need somebody to organize defense of 
the entrances or the passageways into the school -"

     "Sounds like a job for us." called Fred, indicating himself and George, 
and Kingsley nodded his approval.

"All right, leaders up here and we'll divide up the troops!"

     "Potter," said Professor McGonagall, hurrying up to him, as students flooded the 
platform, jostling for position, receiving instructions, "Aren't you supposed to be looking 
for something?"

"What? Oh," said Harry, "oh yeah!"

     He had almost forgotten about the Horcrux, almost forgotten that the 
battle was being fought so that he could search for it: The inexplicable 
absence of Ron and Hermione had momentarily driven every other thought from his 

"Then go, Potter, go!"

"Right - yeah -"

     He sensed eyes following him as he ran out of the Great Hall again, into 
the entrance hall still crowded with evacuating students. He allowed himself to 
be swept up the marble staircase with them, but at the top he hurried off along 
a deserted corridor. Fear and panic were clouding his thought processes. He 
tried to calm himself, to concentrate on finding the Horcrux, but his thoughts 
buzzed as frantically and fruitlessly as wasps trapped beneath a glass. Without 
Ron and Hermione to help him he could not seem to marshal his ideas. He slowed 
down, coming to a halt halfway along a passage, where he sat down on the plinth 
of a departed statue and pulled the Marauder's Map out of the pouch around his 
neck. He could not see Ron's of Hermione's names anywhere on it, though the 
density of the crowd of dots now making its way to the Room of Requirement 
might, he thought, be concealing them. He put the map away, pressed his hands 
over his face, and closed his eyes, trying to concentrate.

Voldemort thought I'd go to Ravenclaw Tower.

     There it was, a solid fact, the place to start. Voldemort had stationed 
Alecto Carrow in the Ravenclaw common room, and there could be only one 
explanation; Voldemort feared that Harry already knew his Horcrux was connected 
to that House.

     But the only object anyone seemed to associate with Ravenclaw was the lost 
diadem... and how could the Horcrux be the diadem? How was it possible that 
Voldemort, the Slytherin, had found the diadem that had eluded generations of 
Ravenclaws? Who could have told him where to look, when nobody had seen the 
diadem in living memory?

In living memory...

     Beneath his fingers, Harry's eyes flew open again. He leapt up from the 
plinth and tore back the way he had come, now in pursuit of his one last hope. 
The sound of hundreds of people marching toward the Room of Requirement grew 
louder and louder as he returned to the marble stairs. Prefects were shouting 
instructions, trying to keep track of the students in their own houses, there 
was much pushing and shouting; Harry

saw Zacharias Smith bowling over first years to get to the front of the queue, 
here and there younger students were in tears, while older ones called 
desperately for friends or siblings.

     Harry caught sight of a pearly white figure drifting across the entrance 
hall below and yelled as loudly as he could over the clamor.

"Nick! NICK! I need to talk to you!"

     He forced his way back through the tide of students, finally reaching the 
bottom of the stairs, where Nearly Headless Nick, ghost of Gryffindor Tower, 
stood waiting for him.

"Harry! My dear boy!"

     Nick made to grasp Harry's hands with both of his own; Harry felt as 
though they had been thrust into icy water.

"Nick, you've got to help me. Who's the ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?"

Nearly Headless Nick looked surprised and a little offended.

"The Gray Lady, of course; but if it is ghostly services you require -?"

"It's got to be her - d'you know where she is?"

"Let's see..."

     Nick's head wobbled a little on his ruff as he turned hither and thither, 
peering over the heads of the swarming students.

"That's her over there, Harry, the young woman with the long hair."

     Harry looked in the direction of Nick's transparent, pointing finger and 
saw a tall ghost who caught sight of Harry looking at her, raised her eyebrows, 
and drifted away through a solid wall.

     Harry ran after her. Once through the door of the corridor into which she 
had disappeared, he saw her at the very end of the passage, still gliding 
smoothly away from him.

"hey - wait - come back!"

     She consented to pause, floating a few inches from the ground. Harry 
supposed that she was beautiful, with her waist-length hair and floor-length 
cloak, but she also

looked haughty and proud. Close in, he recognized her as a ghost he had passed 
several times in the corridor, but to whom he had never spoken.

"You're the Gray Lady?"

She nodded but did not speak.

"The ghost of Ravenclaw Tower?"

"That is correct."

Her tone was not encouraging.

     "Please, I need some help. I need to know anything you can tell me about the 
lost diadem."

A cold smile curved her lips.

"I am afraid," she said, turning to leave, "that I cannot help you."


     He had not meant to shout, but anger and panic were threatening to 
overwhelm him. He glanced at his watch as she hovered in front of him. It was a 
quarter to midnight.

     "This is urgent." he said fiercely. "If that diadem's at Hogwarts, I've got to 
find it, fast."

     "You are hardly the first student to covet the diadem." she said disdainfully. 
"Generations of students have badgered me -"

     "This isn't about trying to get better marks!" Harry shouted at her, "It's 
about Voldemort - defeating Voldemort - or aren't you interested in that?"

     She could not blush, but her transparent cheeks became more opaque, and her voice 
was heated as she replied, "Of course I - how dare you suggest -?"

"Well, help me then!"

Her composure was slipping.

"It - it is not a question of-" she stammered. My mother's diadem -"

"Your mother's?"

She looked angry with herself.

"When I lived," she said stiffly, "I was Helena Ravenclaw." "You're her daughter? 
But then, you must know what happed to it."

     "While the diadem bestows wisdom," she said with an obvious effort to pull herself 
together, "I doubt that it would greatly increase you chances of defeating the wizard who 
calls himself Lord -"

     Haven't I told you, I'm not interested in wearing it!" Harry said fiercely.  
"There's no time to explain - but if you care about Hogwarts, if you want to see 
Voldemort finished, you've got to tell me anything you know about the diadem!"

     She remained quite still, floating in midair, staring down at him, and a 
sense of hopelessness engulfed Harry. Of course, if she had known anything, she 
would have told Flitwick of Dumbledore, who had surely asked her the same 
question. He had shaken his head and made to turn away when she spoke in a low 

"I stole the diadem from my mother."

"You-you did what?"

     "I stole the diadem." repeated Helena Ravenclaw in a whisper. "I sought to make 
myself cleverer, more important than my mother. I ran away with it."

     He did not know how he had managed to gain her confidence and did not ask, 
he simply listened, hard, as she went on.

     "My mother, they say, never admitted that the diadem was gone, but 
pretended that she had it still. She concealed her loss, my dreadful betrayal, even 
from the other founders of Hogwarts.

     "Then my mother fell ill - fatally ill. In spite of my perfidy, she was 
desperate to see me one more time. She sent a man who had long loved me, though I spurned 
his advances, to find me. She knew that he would not rest until he had done so."

Harry waited. She drew a deep breath and threw back her head.

     "He tracked me to the forest where I was hiding. When I refused to return with 
him, he became violent. The baron was always a hot-tempered man. Furious at my refusal, 
jealous of my freedom, he stabbed me."

"The Baron? You mean -?"

     "he Bloody Baron, yes," said the Gray Lady, and she lifted aside the cloak she 
wore to reveal a single dark wound in her white chest. When he saw what he had done, he was 
overcome with remorse. He took the weapon that had claimed my life, and used it to kill 
himself. All these centuries later, he wears his chains as an act of penitence ... as he 
should." she added bitterly.

"And - and the diadem?"

     "It remained where I had hidden it when I heard the Baron blundering through 
the forest toward me. Concealed inside a hollow tree."

"A hollow tree?" repeated Harry. "What tree? Where was this?"

     "A forest in Albania. A lonely place I thought was far beyond my mother's 

     "Albania," repeated Harry. Sense was emerging miraculously from confusion, and now 
he understood why she was telling him what she had denied Dumbledore and Flitwick. "You've 
already told someone this story, haven't you? Another student?"

She closed her eyes and nodded.

     "I had... no idea... He was flattering. He seemed to... understand... to 

     Yes, Harry thought. Tom Riddle would certainly have understood Helena 
Ravenclaw's desire to possess fabulous objects to which she had little right.

     "Well, you weren't the first person Riddle wormed things out of." Harry muttered. 
"He could be charming when he wanted..."

     So, Voldemort had managed to wheedle the location of the lost diadem out 
of the Gray Lady. He had traveled to that far-flung forest and retrieved the 
diadem from its hiding place, perhaps as soon as he left Hogwarts, before he 
even started work at Borgin and Burkes.

     And wouldn't those secluded Albanian woods have seemed an excellent refuge 
when, so much later, Voldemort and needed a place to lie low, undisturbed, for 
ten long years?

     But the diadem, once it became his precious Horcrux, had not been left in 
that lowly tree. . . . No, the diadem had been returned secretly to its true 
home, and Voldemort must have put it there -

"?the night he asked for a job!" said Harry, finishing his thought.

"I beg your pardon?"

     "He hid the diadem in the castle, the night he asked Dumbledore to let him teach!" 
said Harry. Saying it out loud enabled him to make sense of it all. "He must've hidden the 
diadem on his way up to, or down from, Dumbledore's office! But it was well worth trying to get the 
job - then he might've got the chance to nick Gryffindor's sword as well - thank you, thanks!"

     Harry left her floating there, looking utterly bewildered. As he rounded 
the corner back into the entrance hall, he checked his watch. It was five 
minutes until midnight, and though he now knew what the last Horcrux was, he 
was no closer to discovering where it was. . .

     Generations of students had failed to find the diadem; that suggested that 
it was not in Ravenclaw Tower - but if not there, where? What hiding place had 
Tom Riddle discovered inside Hogwarts Castle, that he believed would remain 
secret forever?

     Lost in desperate speculation, Harry turned a corner, but he had taken 
only a few steps down the new corridor when the window to his left broke open 
with a deafening, shattering crash. As he leapt aside, a gigantic body flew in 
through the window and hit the opposite wall.

Something large and furry detached itself, whimpering, from the new arrival and 
flung itself at Harry.

     "Hagrid!" Harry bellowed, fighting off Fang the boarhound's attentions as the 
enormous bearded figure clambered to his feet "What the --?"

"Harry, yer here! Yer here?"

     Hagrid stooped down, bestowed upon Harry a cursory and rib-cracking hug, 
then ran back to the shattered window.

     "Good boy, Grawpy!" he bellowed through the hole in the window. "I'll se yer in 
a moment, there's a good lad!"

     Beyond Hagrid, out in the dark night, Harry saw bursts of light in the 
distance and heard a weird, keening scream. He looked down at his watch: It was 
midnight. The battle had begun.

"Blimey, Harry," panted Hagrid, "this is it, eh? Time ter fight?"

"Hagrid, where have you come from?"

    "Heard You-Know-Who from up in our cave," said Hagrid grimly. "Voice carried, 
didn't it? 'Yet got till midnight ter gimme Potter.' Knew yeh mus' be here, knew that mus' be 
happenin'. Get down, Fang. So we come ter join in, me an' Grawpy an' Fang. Smashed our way through 
the boundary by the forest, Grawpy was carryin' us, Fang an' me. Told him ter let me down at the 
castle, so he shoved me through the window, bless him. Not exactly what I meant, bu' - where's Ron 
an' Hermione?"

"That," said Harry, "is a really good question. Come on."

     They hurried together along the corridor, Fang lolloping beside them. 
Harry could hear movement through the corridors all around: running footsteps, 
shouts; through the windows, he could see more flashes of light in the dark 

     "Where're we goin'?" puffed Hagrid, pounding along at Harry's heels, 
making the floorboards quake.

     "I dunno exactly," said Harry, making another random turn, "but Ron and 
Hermione must be around here somewhere. . . ."

     The first casualties of the battle were already strewn across the passage 
ahead: The two stone gargoyles that usually guarded the entrance to the 
staffroom had been

smashed apart by a jinx that had sailed through another broken window. Their remains 
stirred feebly on the floor, and as Harry leapt over one of their disembodied heads, it 
moaned faintly. "Oh, don't mind me . . . I'll just be here and crumble. . . ."

     Its ugly stone face made Harry think suddenly of the marble bust of Rowena 
Ravenclaw at Xenophilius's house, wearing that mad headdress - and then of the 
statue in Ravenclaw Tower, with the stone diadem upon her white curls. . . .

     And as he reached the end of the passage, the memory of a third stone 
effigy came back to him: that of an ugly old warlock, onto whose head Harry 
himself had placed a wig and a battered old hat. The shock shot through Harry 
with the heat of firewhisky, and he nearly stumbled.

He knew, at least, where the Horcrux sat waiting for him. . . .

     Tom Riddle, who confided in no one and operated alone, might have been 
arrogant enough to assume that he, and only he, had penetrated the deepest 
mysteries of Hogwarts Castle. Of course, Dumbledore and Flitwick, those model 
pupils, had never set foot in that particular place, but he, Harry, had strayed 
off the beaten track in his time at school - here at least was a secret area he 
and Voldemort knew, that Dumbledore had never discovered -

     He was roused by Professor Sprout, who was thundering past followed by 
Neville and half a dozen others, all of them wearing earmuffs and carrying what 
appeared to be large potted plants.

     "Mandrakes!" Neville bellowed at Harry over his shoulder as he ran. "Going to 
lob them over the walls - they won't like this!"

     Harry knew now where to go. He sped off, with Hagrid and Fang galloping 
behind him. They passed portrait after portrait, and the painted figures raced 
alongside them, wizards and witches in ruffs and breeches, in armor and cloaks, 
cramming themselves into each others' canvases, screaming news from other parts 
of the castle. As they reached the end of this corridor, the whole castle 
shook, and Harry knew, as a gigantic vase blew off its plinth with explosive 
force, that it was in the grip of enchantments more sinister than those of the 
teachers and the Order.

     "It's all righ', Fang - it's all righ'!" yelled Hagrid, but the great 
boarhound had taken flight as slivers of china flew like shrapnel through the air, and 
Hagrid pounded off after the terrified dog, leaving Harry alone.

     He forged on through the trembling passages, his wand at the ready, and 
for the length of one corridor the little painted knight, Sir Cadrigan, rushed 
from painting to painting beside him, clanking along in his armor, screaming 
encouragement, his fat little pony cantering behind him.

     "Braggarts and rogues, dogs and scoundrels, drive them out, Harry Potter, see 
them off!"

     Harry hurtled around a corner and found Fred and a small knot of students, 
including Lee Jordan and Hannah Abbott, standing beside another empty plinth, 
whose statue had concealed a secret passageway. Their wands were drawn and they 
were listening at the concealed hole.

    "Nice night for it!" Fred shouted as the castle quaked again, and Harry 
sprinted by, elated and terrified in equal measure. Along yet another corridor he dashed, 
and then there were owls everywhere, and Mrs. Norris was hissing and trying to bat them 
with her paws, no doubt to return them to their proper place. . . .


Aberforth Dumbledore stood blocking the corridor ahead, his wand held ready.

"I've had hundreds of kids thundering through my pub, Potter!"

"I know, we're evacuating," Harry said, "Voldemort's -"

     "- attacking because they haven't handed you over, yeah," said Aberforth. "I'm 
not deaf, the whole of Hogsmeade heard him. And it never occurred to any of you to keep a few 
Slytherins hostage? There are kids of Death Eaters you've just sent to safety. Wouldn't it have 
been a bit smarter to keep 'em here?"

     "It wouldn't stop Voldemort," said Harry, "and your brother would never have 
done it."

Aberforth grunted and tore away in the opposite direction.

     Your brother would never have done it. . . . Well, it was the truth, Harry 
thought as he ran on again: Dumbledore, who had defended Snape for so long, 
would never have held students ransom. . . .

     And then he skidded around a final corner and with a yell of mingled 
relief and fury he saw them: Ron and Hermione; both with their arms full of 
large, curved, dirty yellow objects, Ron with a broomstick under his arms.

"Where the hell have you been?" Harry shouted.

"Chamber of Secrets," said Ron.

"Chamber - what?" said Harry, coming to an unsteady halt before them.

     "It was Ron, all Ron's idea!" said Hermione breathlessly. "Wasn't it absolutely 
brilliant? There we were, after we left, and I said to Ron, even if we find the other one, how are 
we going to get rid of it? We still hadn't got rid of the cup! And then he thought of it! The 

"What the-?"

"Something to get rid of Horcruxes," said Ron simply.

     Harry's eyes dropped to the objects clutched in Ron and Hermione's arms: 
great curved fangs; torn, he now realized, from the skull of a dead basilisk.

     "But how did you get in there?" he asked, staring from the fangs to Ron. "You 
need to speak Parseltongue!"

"He did!" whispered Hermione. "Show him, Ron!"

Ron made a horrible strangled hissing noise.

     "It's what you did to open the locket," he told Harry apologetically. "I had to have a 
few goes to get it right, but," he shrugged modestly, "we got there in the end."

"He was amazingV said Hermione. "Amazing!"

"So . . ." Harry was struggling to keep up. "So . . ."

     "So we're another Horcrux down," said Ron, and from under his jacket he pulled the 
mangled remains of Hufflepuff s cup. "Hermione stabbed it. Thought she should. She hasn't had 
the pleasure yet."

"Genius!" yelled Harry.

     "It was nothing," said Ron, though he looked delighted with himself. "So what's 
new with you?"

     As he said it, there was an explosion from overhead: All three of them 
looked up as dust fell from the ceiling and they heard a distant scream.

     "I know what the diadem looks like, and I know where it is," said Harry, 
talking fast. "He hid it exactly where I had my old Potions book, where everyone's been 

stuff for centuries. He thought he was the only one to find it. Come on."

     As the walls trembled again, he led the other two back through the 
concealed entrance and down the staircase into the Room of Requirement. It was 
empty except for three women: Ginny, Tonks and an elderly witch wearing a 
moth-eaten hat, whom Harry recognized immediately as Neville's grandmother.

     "Ah, Potter," she said crisply as if she had been waiting for him. "You can 
tell us what's going on."

"Is everyone okay?" said Ginny and Tonks together.

     "'S far as we know," said Harry. "Are there still people in the passage to the 
Hog's Head?"

     He knew that the room would not be able to transform while there were 
still users inside it.

     "I was the last to come through," said Mrs. Longbottom. "I sealed it, I think 
it unwise to leave it open now Aberforth has left his pub. Have you seen my grandson?"

"He's fighting," said Harry.

"Naturally," said the old lady proudly. "Excuse me, I must go and assist him."

With surprising speed she trotted off toward the stone steps.

Harry looked at Tonks.

"I thought you were supposed to be with Teddy at your mother's?"

     "I couldn't stand not knowing -" Tonks looked anguished. "She'll look after him 
- have you seen Remus?"

"He was planning to lead a group of fighters into the grounds -"

Without another word, Tonks sped off.

     "Ginny," said Harry, "I'm sorry, but we need you to leave too. Just for a bit. 
Then you can come back in."

Ginny looked simply delighted to leave her sanctuary.

     "And then you can come back in!" he shouted after her as she ran up the steps after 
Tonks. "You 've got to come back in!"

"Hang on a moment!" said Ron sharply. "We've forgotten someone!"

"Who?" asked Hermione.

"The house-elves, they'll all be down in the kitchen, won't they?"

"You mean we ought to get them fighting?" asked Harry.

     "No," said Ron seriously, "I mean we should tell them to get out. We don't want 
anymore Dobbies, do we? We can't order them to die for us -"

     There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione's arms. 
Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the 
mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded 
with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet.

     "Is this the moment?" Harry asked weakly, and when nothing happened except that Ron 
and Hermione gripped each other still more firmly and swayed on the spot, he raised his voice. 
"Oi! There's a war going on here!"

Ron and Hermione broke apart, their arms still around each other.

     "I know, mate," said Ron, who looked as though he had recently been hit on the back 
of the head with a Bludger, "so it's now or never, isn't it?"

     "Never mind that, what about the Horcrux?" Harry shouted. "D'you think you 
could just -just hold it in until we've got the diadem?"

     "Yeah - right - sorry -" said Ron, and he and Hermione set about gathering 
up fangs, both pink in the face.

     It was clear, as the three of them stepped back into the corridor 
upstairs, that in the minutes that they had spent in the Room of Requirement 
the situation within the castle had deteriorated severely: The walls and 
ceiling were shaking worse than ever; dust filled the air, and through the 
nearest window, Harry saw bursts of green and red light so close to the foot of 
the castle that he knew the Death Eaters must be very near to entering the 
place. Looking down, Harry saw Grawp the giant meandering past, swinging what 
looked like a stone gargoyle torn from the roof and roaring his displeasure.

     "Let's hope he steps on some of them!" said Ron as more screams echoed 
from close by.

     "As long as it's not any of our lot!" said a voice: Harry turned and saw 
Ginny and Tonks, both with their wands drawn at the next window, which was missing 
several panes. Even as he watched, Ginny sent a well-aimed jinx into a crowd of fighters 

     "Good girl!" roared a figure running through the dust toward them, and Harry saw 
Aberforth again, his gray hair flying as he led a small group of students past. "They look 
like they might be breaching the north battlements, they've brought giants of their own."

"Have you seen Remus?" Tonks called after him.

"He was dueling Dolohov," shouted Aberforth, "haven't seen him since!"

"Tonks," said Ginny, "Tonks, I'm sure he's okay -"

But Tonks had run off into the dust after Aberforth.

Ginny turned, helpless, to Harry, Ron, and Hermione.

     "They'll be all right," said Harry, though he knew they were empty words. 
"Ginny, we'll be back in a moment, just keep out of the way, keep safe - come on!" he 
said to Ron and Hermione, and they ran back to the stretch of wall beyond which the Room of 
Requirement was waiting to do the bidding of the next entrant.

     I need the place where everything is hidden. Harry begged of it inside his 
head, and the door materialized on their third run past.

     The furor of the battle died the moment they crossed the threshold and 
closed the door behind them: All was silent. They were in a place the size of a 
cathedral with the appearance of a city, its towering walls built of objects 
hidden by thousands of long-gone students.

     "And he never realized anyone could get in?" said Ron, his voice echoing 
in the silence.

     "He thought he was the only one," said Harry. "Too bad for him I've had to hide stuff in 
my time . . . this way," he added. "I think it's down here. . . ."

     They sped off up adjacent aisles; Harry could hear the others' footsteps 
echoing through the towering piles of junk, of bottles, hats, crates, chairs, 
books, weapons, broomsticks, bats. . . .

     "Somewhere near here," Harry muttered to himself. "Somewhere . . . somewhere 

     Deeper and deeper into the labyrinth he went, looking for objects he 
recognized from his one previous trip into the room. His breath was loud in his 
ears, and then his very soul seemed to shiver. There it was, right ahead, the 
blistered old cupboard in which he had hidden his old Potions book, and on top 
of it, the pockmarked stone warlock wearing a dusty old wig and what looked 
like an ancient discolored tiara.

     He had already stretched out his hand, though he remained few feet away, when a 
voice behind him said, "Hold it, Potter."

     He skidded to a halt and turned around. Crabbe and Goyle were standing 
behind him, shoulder to shoulder, wands pointing right at Harry. Through the 
small space between their jeering faces he saw Draco Malfoy.

     "That's my wand you're holding, Potter," said Malfoy, pointing his own 
through the gap between Crabbe and Goyle.

     "Not anymore," panted Harry, tightening his grip on the hawthorn wand. 
"Winners, keepers, Malfoy. Who's lent you theirs?"

"My mother," said Draco.

     Harry laughed, though there was nothing very humorous about the situation. 
He could not hear Ron or Hermione anymore. They seemed to have run out of 
earshot, searching for the diadem.

"So how come you three aren't with Voldemort?" asked Harry.

     "We're gonna be rewarded," said Crabbe. His voice was surprisingly soft for such an 
enormous person: Harry had hardly ever heard him speak before. Crabbe was speaking like a small 
child promised a large bag of sweets. "We 'ung back, Potter. We decided not to go. Decided to 
bring you to 'im."

     "Good plan," said Harry in mock admiration. He could not believe that he 
was this close, and was going to be thwarted by Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. He began 
edging slowly backward toward the place where the Horcrux sat lopsided upon the bust. If 
he could just get his hands on it before the fight broke out. . .

"So how did you get in here?" he asked, trying to distract them.

     "I virtually lived in the Room of Hidden Things all last year," said Malfoy, his 
voice brittle. "I know how to get in."

     "We was hiding in the corridor outside," grunted Goyle. "We can do Diss-lusion Charms 
now! And then," his face split into a gormless grin, "you turned up right in front of us and said 
you was looking for a die-dum! What's a die-dum?"

     "Harry?" Ron's voice echoed suddenly from the other side of the wall to Harry's 
right. "Are you talking to someone?"

     With a whiplike movement, Crabbe pointed his wand at the fifty foot mountain of 
old furniture, of broken trunks, of old books and robes and unidentifiable junk, and 
shouted, "Descendof

     The wall began to totter, then the top third crumbled into the aisle next 
door where Ron stood.

     "Ron!" Harry bellowed, as somewhere out of sight Hermione screamed, and Harry heard 
innumerable objects crashing to the floor on the other side of the destabilized wall: He pointed 
his wand at the rampart, cried, "Finite!" and it steadied.

     "No!" shouted Malfoy, staying Crabbe's arm as the latter made to repeat his spell. 
"If you wreck the room you might bury this diadem thing!"

     "What's that matter?" said Crabbe, tugging himself free. "It's Potter the Dark 
Lord wants, who cares about a die-dum?"

     "Potter came in here to get it," said Malfoy with ill-disguised impatience at the 
slow-wittedness of his colleagues, "so that must mean -"

     '"Must mean'?" Crabbe turned on Malfoy with undisguised ferocity. "Who cares 
what you think? I don't take your orders no more, Draco. You an' your dad are finished."

     "Harry?" shouted Ron again, from the other side of the junk wad. "What's going 

"Harry?" mimicked Crabbe. "What's going on - no, Potter! Cruciof

     Harry had lunged for the tiara; Crabbe's curse missed him but hit the 
stone bust, which flew into the air; the diadem soared upward and then dropped 
out of sight in the mass of objects on which the bust had rested.

     "STOP!" Malfoy shouted at Crabbe, his voice echoing through the enormous room. 
"The Dark Lord wants him alive -"

     "So? I'm not killing him, am I?" yelled Crabbe, throwing off Malfoy's restraining 
arm. "But if I can, I will, the Dark Lord wants him dead anyway, what's the diff ? ?"

     A jet of scarlet light shot past Harry by inches: Hermione had run around 
the corner behind him and sent a Stunning Spell straight at Crabbe's head. It 
only missed because Malfoy pulled him out of the way.

"It's that Mudblood! Avada Kedavra!"

     Harry saw Hermione dive aside, and his fury that Crabbe had aimed to kill 
wiped all else from his mind. He shot a Stunning Spell at Crabbe, who lurched 
out of the way, knocking Malfoy's wand out of his hand; it rolled out of sight 
beneath a mountain of broken furniture and bones.

     "Don't kill him! DON'T KILL HIM!" Malfoy yelled at Crabbe and Goyle, who 
were both aiming at Harry: Their split second's hesitation was all Harry needed.


     Goyle's wand flew out of his hand and disappeared into the bulwark of 
objects beside him; Goyle leapt foolishly on the spot, trying to retrieve it; 
Malfoy jumped out of range of Hermione's second Stunning Spell, and Ron, 
appearing suddenly at the end of the aisle, shot a full Body-Bind Curse at 
Crabbe, which narrowly missed.

     Crabbe wheeled around and screamed, "Avada Kedavra!" again. Ron leapt out 
of sight to avoid the jet of green light. The wand-less Malfoy cowered behind a 
three-legged wardrobe as Hermione charged toward them, hitting Goyle with a Stunning 
Spell as she came.

     "It's somewhere here!" Harry yelled at her, pointing at the pile of junk into which 
the old tiara had fallen. "Look for it while I go and help R -"

"HARRY!" she screamed.

     A roaring, billowing noise behind him gave him a moment's warning. He 
turned and saw both Ron and Crabbe running as hard as they could up the aisle 
toward them.

"Like it hot, scum?" roared Crabbe as he ran.

     But he seemed to have no control over what he had done. Flames of abnormal 
size were pursuing them, licking up the sides of the junk bulwarks, which were 
crumbling to soot at their touch.

     "Aguamenti!" Harry bawled, but the jet o